Trickster

 

 

 

The more I struggle

The worse it gets.

I buy a coat, then

I’m too thin to wear it.

I buy a house, then

Wind covers it in smoke.

I make a garden, then

Wind covers it in smoke.

I sit in my house coughing.

I write a poem, then

You assume my poem

Is about you, then

You hate my poem.

“You’re a liar,” you say.

How was I to know

You were thin, your garden

Was covered in smoke

That you sat in your house

Coughing?