how to be happy in tiny slices
Walk the streets of the town you moved to but don't quite fit in, flinching
at the cigarette packs that scatter the gutters, the abandoned green straws
from Starbucks, the one-shot liquor bottles and caved-in Capri Suns,
the caps flicked out carelessly from car windows, torn remains of shopping lists,
the tops of old paint cans and bottom ends of old bread, receipts from the gas station
and the pharmacy and the ATMs of all seven banks that line the main avenue.
Bend, in your overwhelm and alienation, to a single square foot below you,
the one whose pile of castoffs offends you most. Reach a hand toward the source
of your greatest displeasure, then close a fist around it. There is a place to empty
what you don't need to hold onto anymore. Go there now.