By John Dorroh



There is order in straight lines, & even they are bent
ever so slightly when viewed with structured examination.
All things are in flux, a state of chaos, dropping crumbs
& entrails along the way; spinning out of control
like rogue planets on cosmic speed, sloughing off lava-hot
pebbles, specks, & microdust; flinging dirt & debris
into the nasty vacuum of space. Nothing’s neat out there.

See how the birds drop strands of stray yarn from messy
nests, how dust finds its way back onto your bedroom dresser
in less time than it takes to say a prayer, how spaghetti sauce
doesn’t stay in the pot. It’s all a mess, a colossal knot 
of whacky matter.

So don’t pretend to be on top of things. Even if you hire
someone to help, they never get it done, & when it seems 
that they do, it’s all an illusion. Your freshly-scrubbed toilet
harbors billions of bacteria & pathogens that can make you sick.
Your grass will grow back as soon as it is mowed, & the cat
will purge hair and oil onto everything in the house. Your 
detailed car will be dingy in a week & your underwear are soiled
the minute you crawl into their legs.

It’s fine to take the time to toss your boxers & bras into a drawer,
to house them like tired sparrows until you feel the need
to let them loose, to let them fly into space. They will do it
on their own, whether you like it or not.

~~~~~

John Dorroh travels as often as possible. He inevitably ends up in other peoples’ kitchens exchanging culinary tidbits and telling tall tales. Once he baked bread with Austrian monks and drank a healthy portion of their beer. Six of his poems were nominated for Best of the Net. Others have appeared in over 100 journals, including Feral, North of Oxford, River Heron, Wisconsin Review, Kissing Dynamite, and El Portal. He had two chapbooks published in 2022. He lives in rural Illinois, USA, near St. Louis.