Statistical

The microwave hums a low, flat C

while the timer counts down the red.

I’m thinking of all who came before me

who are quiet and cold and dead.

My hands are mapped with a hundred lines,

veins like a blue, thin rope.

A long-running series of accidents, signs,

and a desperate, hanging hope.

Two minutes left for the soup to get hot

in a house that is silent and still.

I’m standing right here in this one small spot

against any sense or will.