anything close to perfect
poetry by Kenneth P. Gurney
Limp
I sent a letter
to my left foot.
A few days later
a nice pastel note
in a flowery hand
informed me
that my foot
did not reside there
anymore.
Last Wednesday
Last Tuesday, I lived a perfect day
in spite of all my imperfect decisions.
I thought it would be a good day to die,
like retiring after winning
the Super Bowl or the World Series,
but then I thought anew
it would be a better day to live
at least until bed time
or ten minutes after falling asleep.
I thought maybe I should celebrate,
but I did not want to rub it in your face
that you did not have a perfect day,
though, maybe you did
and I was unaware of it—
which would cast some doubt
on my level of perfection,
so let us not think about it.
I was going to mark my calendar
to celebrate this perfect day’s anniversary
for the rest of my years,
but the calendars were already marked
with Mr. Lincoln’s birthday
and, Lincoln being my hero,
I did not want to distract from his day.
I thought about writing a self-help book
so other people could follow
an intricate set of rules to have their own
perfect day, but then I thought
of the self-help book ending up
in remainder bins and garage sales
and how could that be anything close to perfect.
Last Wednesday—actually really late
last Tuesday, since I tried to stretch my perfect day
a little longer past my usual bedtime—
I watched seven meteors streak across the sky.