Resistance may be futile,
but many things are not
quite as they’ve been billed.

How the pebbles fly up into
your wheel wells as you drive,
startling your dog, your child,

or you. The morning expands
to admit you; it seldom resists
at all. I wish I could remove

the balky things from your world—
sore feet and squeaky hinges,
a certain tic above your eye—

unless you love them.
Unless I’m one of them.
Unless you love me.