I hope the remainder of the story
plays out the way the protagonists
want it to. I hope they’re bathed
in a rain of pearls and swirling, rosy light
enters their hearts, making them young again.
Not that I think that youth has any
intrinsic moral value, but
lots of others seem to like it, so fuck it,
may they be forever young.
May they never ever be stung
by the cold of social faux-pas,
and may their teeth be decorated
in the finest gauze. May they never
find themselves trapped for an eternity
in the awkward pause that follows
“Oh, so you’re a poet?
Where have you been published?”
I could go on listing my wishes
for the hardy heroes/heroines
of this here tale, but the veil of exhaustion
fluttering overhead keeps trying
to smother me in its fabric.
And it isn’t every day that something
tries to smother you.