Peripeteia
Joseph Wade

Peripeteia is the predestined doom
of blowing shocks, slipping gears
in transmissions, seconds before
selling your car and careening to New York City,
intrepid in pursuit of education,
near to a dream meandering away
like an old hobo
intent on inserting your
offering into a bartender’s hand
while you demand from the universe,
“Why,” sighing at an empty sky
whose reply is ominous clouds
sizzled and slashed by lightning
that forces you home where a
fat man with a badge jumps
up and arrests you
for parking tickets,
two of last years
unpaid orange slips
masquerading as
secret origami handcuffs.

Trudging to the constable’s car
you cross paths with a black kitten
unraveling green yarn that rolls
silent into oncoming traffic.

Later, in the courthouse,
the constable speaks,
“I found the cure for erectile dysfunction.”
Truth is, his prick is fine--
I’m pretty well fucked.