Lucky Kid

To know that you’re extruded
from the dead collective head
of long ago –  squeezing from its
strained inevitable flow – a loaded
dense and threaded mesh –

the flesh of aching throes

of antecedent others: fathers,
mothers, and their fathers, mothers –
and their unknown lovers:
and to know that this odd

confluence of influence is all

you’ve ever had and all you’ve got:
well, somehow, now, this clot
of an allotment seems like
an agglomerated pot of which,

because your loins have not

contributed more human clay to it,
you are the lid (you're on the spot!).
Does this mean you’ve won?
Is it all done? Lucky kid.









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