“Stop fucking up,”
We say collectively
to ourselves.

It’s one part indictment
One part affirmation
and all a bit unconvincing.

Three wisteria bushes jut from a hunk of basalt
Marking the grave of someone so important
No one remembers how to spell their name.

Why do we even want to be remembered?
The age of Cadillacs has come and gone.
We’re always a step too late.

If everything is imitation,
why do I claw at the roots of my ancestors
Digging for deeper understanding?

Only two wisteria remain -
Lightning struck one and transformed it into charcoal
Suitable for a cave painting.

“Stop fucking up,”
We cry to the heavens
to no avail.