i always carry
a book of matches
with me
in my back pocket
in case the signal
is given
the riot begins
the sins
of the fathers
lay the new way
for the generations
to come

i always take notes
on the world around me
scribbled in lines
of pedantic prose
to remind myself
of all we take for granted
the slanted lies
of forever
speckled
on the dew
of a drawing day

i always give thanks
for the small blessings
whisper a hex
for the curses
bow my head
for the wrongs
never righted
the slights
the cuts
the stepped over
the stepped on

i always carry
a book of matches
with me
avoid the line of sight
while searching
for the next fight
because
i don’t know any better
won’t do it
any other way
in a world that gives
no certainty
we are the only ones left
to give a damn