Every morning I wake up in the wrong bed.
Slits of noon needling in from strange
angles. I’ll straighten my belt as I leave.
On Sundays I’ll swing by the first church
I see, reach the altar. Pray it off. I’ll stop
at some diner, this one a gutted freight
car with homemade scrapple. The waitress
mentions the snowfall in May—she tells me
it’s biblical. Rapture and suffering. I’ll agree,
say: I hope it comes soon. I never wanted this
life: water bottles sloshing with piss
in the passenger seat. My family a photo
facedown in my wallet. Some people
aren’t meant to stay in one place. So they
loosen the waitress’s apron. Only pay cash.