One’s lot in life determines a lot. A shitty lot in life? Overlooking the freeway, or on a toxic Superfund site, or just too ghetto. A friend wants to buy a better lot in life— a plot of land in the mountains of Bulgaria. We have a nice lot despite the lack of mountains. Fall in a parking lot because the legs you find yourself with fail, are run through with the spider veins of age. A lot of things can save you: someone to pick you up and drive you around, a TV of infinite distraction, pharmaceuticals, cash, and lots of it. Don’t count on Lot’s wife: her salty kiss only brings copious tears. Lots. I’d like to live near alotawater like the Pacific or the Atlantic or the Adriatic. Dead Sea dead last on the list, which has lots of other options, so. Don’t piss on your lot if you live in the city. Okay in the country. The same goes for parking on your lot. War is not a lot of fun. Neither is torture. A bad lot of them took him into the building, and when he came out, he was alive but no longer cared to live. Not much. Your lot fits into a puzzle of millions of lots, and bumps and grinds up against them like the sea on a pebbled beach, and affects them deeply, like love or hate or lots of other more subtle variations on those emotions. Watch your lot. Tend it. Don’t curse it unless you must. The lot of many equals a lot of great loss with briars and rules binding their greatest desires—to see the city’s destruction and live, to kiss the wrong rightly, to bring down the lot of greed that makes ruins of so many good plots.
Timothy Bradford Read Bio Author Discusses Poems
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