WHITNEY RICKETTS

According to laws of ownership, 
you’re homeless. According to virology 
you’re hunted, sore-throated, snotty. 
By psychology you’re understood 
and spun out, an iced tire. In fashion 
you’re an adopter, a crofter, a little black 
smock of sleep.

Notice how roofs lift their houses into reason, 
their stories into debt. How leather walks years 
after the first bloody cut 
and shoes say something faster about a man 
than his wallet because you don’t 
have to ask to see them.

Starting today, you’ll study the discipline 
of what you don’t know 
about what you don’t want. You want this 
like the flu wants lungs. Today, 
keep it simple when simple makes sense. 
Don’t start with schoolbooks. Start 
with breakfast.

KATE LEBO