In a sea change, or in a sea of change,
permanence is sunken, varnished knots
on the oak table you have owned for years;
or how, to lock the side door of your house,
you must tug upwards gently with your wrist.

If all you get is bread and circuses—
Monday Night Football, People magazine
and popcorn’s dull thud in the microwave—
at least the dog still needs his daily air,
the tautened leash you brace your feet against.

When the front right burner on the stove
won’t spark, it’s a familiar annoyance.
Dithering over rival crime-scene shows,
you’re oddly grounded when a light bulb blows.

* * *

Original appearance in 32 Poems.