Odds
Against all odds
I live to breath-in the daylight
that filters through dark curtains.
The green plant (grown from seed)
is still sleeping.
I forgot what kind it is, it has no name
but against all odds
it flourishes in a dream-like way.
In a dormant room
a laptop is singing quietly to itself.
in a distant land
paws pitter patter over moonbeams.
Stretching out my crooked frame
I once again
see the odds are good enough
to join all those other nameless beings
who populate my life
with ink and echoes.
Dormice scurry around brown teapots.
Jackdaws caw and whistle
looking for something to steal
while we, the innominate,
are not looking.
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