When I was sixteen, I couldn’t
eat a Baconator because
it didn’t exist. At thirty-six,
I know it will fill me with evil,
and I want so much
to live a life of meaning,
leaving tiny explosions of yes
in my sensible sedan’s wake,
helping kids see numbers’ grace
in flocks of Canada geese
and vice versa, swallowing
curses as often as possible
despite the distracting insistence
of this world’s extras
on texting through the reunion tour,
curling increasingly heavy metals
in hopes of maintaining
some culturally acceptable semblance
of masculinity, burning
only the slips of paper on which
what’s done is done, moving on,
trusting in the potential
for microscopic daily miracles
to swell, maybe not
a democracy, but a chorus,
like the crickets this August,
listening to all of you
who might, at any moment,
misspeak and solve the riddle
of infinity—I want a Baconator,
and I do not want it.
At eighty, I’ll simply be afraid.



Rob MacDonald lives in Boston and is the editor of Sixth Finch. His poems can be found in Gulf Coast, DIAGRAM, Sink Review, iO, inter|rupture, H_NGM_N and other journals. He has books forthcoming from Rye House Press and Racing Form Press.



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