Every morning I wake up in the wrong bed.
Slits of noon needle in from strange
angles. I’ll straighten my belt as I leave.
On Sundays I’ll swing by the first church
I see, reach the altar, pray it off. I’ll stop
at some diner, this gutted freight car
with homemade scrapple. The waitress
will mention the snow in May–she’ll tell me
it’s biblical. Rapture & suffering. I’ll agree,
say I hope it comes soon. I never wanted this
life: water bottles sloshing with piss
in the passenger seat. My family photo
facedown in my wallet. Some people
aren’t meant to stay in one place. So they
loosen the waitress’s apron. Only pay cash.
Dan Haney
Originally published in North American Review