Shoulda, Coulda, Woulda (rethought)
by Odin Roark

Surviving myself,
I passed a man on his bike
pulling the cart where sat the mongrels,
his sign flapping in the wind,
its string about to break,
faded letters imploring,
“I’m broke and in the dog house.”

His beguiling smile belying the flat tires
carrying him past my eyes,
that shoulda been enough to stop.
I had two dollars fully inflated.

I walked ‘til the tall grass moved
a field mouse was frozen,
the cat waited, body slung low.

The moment was near.
I shoulda clapped.
A simple yell would do.
But I ignored the life once running
now only a final gasp as rodent tail disappears beneath feline whiskers.

I stood at checkout,
my basket rainbowed by fruit and wine.
My impatience waned
as she wept and took back
her credit card, over used,
her groceries 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 fancy cloth adorned nakedness.

Later I’ll walk,
hoping once again for wouldas
as my fingers roll
fuzz balls deep in my pockets
‘til I fill them once more
with a mind surviving itself.