No one should have babies anymore
or win things, or do things
until I can catch up and figure out
how I’m not losing, or how not to lose more,
or how to slow the losing, how close I am to
whatever cliff this is, how not to
fall into the canyon, my feet pedaling in air.
How not to be Wile E. Coyote but less infinite,
completely destructible, being, as I am,
made of flesh awaiting its next assignment.