An act of a man

What if the fate of humanity depended on a single, random act of a man,
no matter how insignificant—sort of like a Sunday parish raffle,
but with our very existence at stake?

Fairness aside, what are the chances we would survive such a trial?

Being a poet, not a statistician, I can’t really calculate the odds,
though since even on the battlefield there are occasional acts of kindness,
we might be just fine.

But if something like glueing a nail upright to a pavement slab
that I stumbled upon on my evening stroll is not an isolated incident,
then we are eternally screwed.

Regrets

Does six miles on a bike count as a passing grade
in the arithmetic of cookies and pebbles,
or is it just plain old me trying to pretend
that it doesn’t matter how much my body can take,
as long as your smile covers the fundamentals
of cruelty—thanks to Niépce and the Lumière brothers
keeping alive the taste of cheap tinned peaches
served on peanut butter sandwiches for breakfast
with a cup of rooibos tea, already cold
and somewhat salty?

I always liked watching you undress,
but we never talked, and you would often laugh
at my sudden lack of confidence every time our eyes met.
Perhaps that was the problem, and now that all that’s left
easily fits under the crumpled sheet, it’s too late
to repeat the absent words, at least until I relearn the language
of picnics and mint chocolate—a rather meagre price
for indulgence.

Not for lack of effort

Too many words, too few hours of sleep with music imitating the lasting sounds of the street,
or the other way around, and breakfast like the last supper rehearsal, goaded by the mere fact
of my undeniable mortality—all of that made me feel as if I had forgotten someone’s birthday,
when in fact it was the birthday one who sabotaged my every effort at making birthday wishes.
Who would have thought cruelty could be effortless?