I don’t deserve friends in my living room
late at night laughing, or lake swimming
in August, or the smell of onions frying
in a pan.
I make no rightful claim to clean socks,
or raspberries or more than one shade of
green, and I’ve done little to merit bicycle riding
or hearing the words I forgive you.
I’ve never deserved legs and I cannot justify
tasting thai coconut curries. I am not entitled
to serotonin and fresh towels, even breathing in
after it rains.
My existence does not warrant Arbutus trees,
or airplane travel, and I was never owed Miles
Davis. I have no right to Zebras—I honestly
never had them coming.
I don’t deserve lying naked beside a woman
and feeling no shame, and I cannot earn
the morning, or the light on the leaves.