Excuse me.

I was standing here

and you bumped right

into my left side.

See:

you knocked the collection

of little life joys

out of my arms.

I’ve resigned to

grasping the air

as my chest heaves

like a bobbing sailboat

lost in a black sea.

Dramatic?

Sure but —

Won’t you apologize?

Won’t you notice

the wreckage,

guide me toward

a channel of breath

I can gasp an exhale into?

The universe tells me

lean down

pick your world back up,

bake with wild flour

recipes of happiness

for the banquet

of aliveness —

but wouldn’t it be nice

if you reached down, too

helped to collect

my discarded glees

and together

we carried them

into our kitchen

to enjoy?

It seems only fair

since you bumped me

in the first place.

But here I am:

at a loss

of what to do

with my hands

and as soon as you arrived

you are gone.