If I were a better poet I’d have 
something profound to say 

about calculated loss, this predictable kind
of exhaustion. I’d ask how true it is, 

what they say about empires lasting 
250 years. Those four smokestacks, 

only one of which works. We discuss 
the possibilities—how bad, really, 

could this be—while the hot sky 
darkens. We’ve said the same for the last 

four generations, that constant leaving 
or being chased out. Always 

in transit. Always wanting more. Pass 
the rum. We put kompa on the radio, know 

there’s nothing more we can do 
about sure decline, that deja vu. The broken leg, 

blood seeping through the muddy 
fur. On the near-melted asphalt 

we are dogs loose on God’s 
narrow track. Juniper berries sink 

in sweating glasses held by women 
wearing derby hats. Meanwhile, we run 

in circles through our pain. In the back 
stretch, there’s that desire—I, too, 

will be free. Sticky sweat runs 
down the backs of our floral 

dresses while the lure 
reels back. Greyhounds ready 

on their hocks. The jackpot 
on the ticket. We lean in, 

waiting for the gun to go off.