How much more is there
when you open up the closet
and realize, just an instant
too late, you’ve been drafted
into a high school student’s
comedy film? You know you
don’t remember buying those
squash rackets, but the camembert
rings a bell. It sounds just
next to your eardrum. On the upside,
that stops you from being able
to discern one jar from another
as every kind of jam you’ve ever
heard of, and seventeen you haven’t,
escape, spread themselves across
your bedroom floor. You sigh,
claw your way out. You’ve had better days.