Coulda Shoulda Woulda
by Odin Roark

I passed a man on his bike
pulling the cart where sat the mongrels,
his sign flapping in the wind,
its strings about to break,
faded letters imploring
I'm broke and in the dog house,
his smile belying the flat tires
carrying him past my eyes
that shoulda seen enough to stop.
I had two dollars fully inflated.

I walked ‘til the tall grass moved,
the mouse was frozen,
the cat waited body slung low,
the moment near.
I shoulda clapped,
a simple yell would do,
but I ignored the life once running,
now only a final gasp,
as tail disappears beneath whiskers.

I stood at checkout,
my basket rainbowed by fruit and wine,
my impatience waned
as she wept and started to leave,
her credit over used,
her groceries to be restocked.

I coulda reached.
I didn't need the wine.

Tomorrow I'll wake,
let beads of water wash away the
shouldas,
couldas,
towel myself dry,
note another hair in the sink,
squeeze shut my eyes,
and don yet another day
of cloth adorned nakedness.

Later I'll walk,
looking again for wouldas,
as my fingers roll
fuzz balls deep in my pockets,
hoping to better my ways,
learn how to survive myself.