The sirens woke me up again.
I know they're coming for me someday, just a matter of when.
Count to twenty-five and yawn.
Touch the clock and turn my back against the dawn,
and hope for that one dream of hardware stores
with checkered floors, and buckets full of nails.
Or floating, effortless, over the apartment in a boat,
and rowing past the office windows.
Mother, mother may I cry.
Father will you teach me how to die the right way someday.
I don't want a second chance to turn my stuttering reluctance into romance,
with these documents and kindergarten anthems, with my drunken liturgies.
Tune the FM in to static, and pretend that it's the sea.
But four words fumble for the microphone: you should have known.