without a fork

I am poking at reality with a spoon . . . without a fork. Far and few between are forks. They can grasp with pertinence the realness of the bind I think I might not admit that I am in.

I can hide away all day and sleep it all away right?

I can parade with the rest of them, throw confetti, right?

I can just not pay attention to the real ________ at hand, and pretend that's it's just a hat and put it on a shelf and let it collect dust with the rest of my hats and leave it there in the spring when I take the rest of my hats down, right?

Or if I am feeling better tomorrow about it maybe I will whisper to God and then walk away from it again, thinking it's going to walk away too, but it won't because it never does and I can just trust that it will, except that trust is really in the person trusting. . .

and I may not be as trusting as I used to be, at least, not trusting in me.

I need to go tomorrow and find me a fork to grapple reality with.