Wax On, Wax Off

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WAX ON, WAX OFF


The sum total of all the little things

turns out to be—in the end—incredibly 

little still, the vast monolith you were 


promised if only you trusted the process

no more than a pebble kicked 

up and glancing unnoticed


off the Big Rig's windshield.

It’s not that what you do doesn’t matter,

it’s just that what you do doesn’t matter 


all that much, and were you, say, not 

to do it, barbecue joints would still offer 

salad bars with an order of endless ribs


and dogs would persist in picking

thick fights with thin air. Enough

to make one consider slipping off the bone


to join them in howling at the abyss,

though were you to do this

there'd be a perfectly good head


of lettuce sure to wither,

not to mention another stray—

an ordinary one with footprints


dewed-over come morning—waiting 

faithfully to be called inside by someone 

whose mere voice alters everything.

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