Fantasy

If the lightning punches a surge
into the frail capillaries of my computer,
I could lose all of my poems, stories,
and half-built plans for a better life.

I’d stand in the middle of the room,
and, with curses drying up on the floor
and the sweat of helpless rage in my clothes,
I’d put a chair out on the lawn and sit.

I’d look away from the house and try
to forget it exists. The grass would be
a little wet, and I’d let the bugs crawl
up to my knee before slapping them flat.

I’d let the sun set and feel every last
thread of the illusion that my life
just started over, and that it only began
when I fell asleep that night.