Someone’s Gotta Do It

I try to catch me unaware
before I dare effect my daily
execution: you see, I need
to kill myself each day
but – like a ferret, bird or eel –
I’m hard to find and steal
and keep my hands on.

I beckon – crook and wag
my index finger – crooning,
“here, sweet baby, don’t
be scared,” hoping I will
take the bait and creep
out from my daytime lair.
Generally eyes get wide

and nostrils flare and I am
nowhere here or there.
But sometimes, when
it’s late and I have had
enough of daylight
and the sorts of grating
loud realities that daylight

seems to like, I strike
a tacit pact, agree to crack
the shell and all the inner
semi-liquid me bloops into
some new swelling splay
of entropy, and that,
my friend, is what you see.

.