Good Chip

My lack of skill, I just hammered the keys. A piano chord,

the overcoat. On a lacquered floor I played the role, wrote

a speech and bore witness. And what’s to show?

Pictures from the coast and two dead fish, my salad

of a brother. If I sound ungrateful, it’s because I am.

I only wanted to be a good chip

off the old block. Instead, I was cold, hard to heart,

the entire fall season a stack of thick sweaters and walks

in the park. If I’m last to the plane, I’m loafed

at the bar, final boarding call. My whole life

just a ride on the flume—

thrill and its splash, then all afternoon

with angry chapped legs. Every heartbreak I slink

around for months, suspicious as a street pup. Rather an empty

belly than a bruised side. When the ship sinks, it’s every man

by himself. If I dance all alone, I’ll always step in time.