Looking For the Poem That Explains It All

by David Kirby

Someday I hope to find the poem
that tells me what is wrong
with everybody, why the beautiful
young girls in horror movies
turn to hags whose skin drips
from their faces, for instance,
or why people drive down the street
with looks of unbearable smugness,
as if to say, "My kids are better
than your kids, they will grow up
to be doctors and lawyers,
and I will always drive this big,
expensive car," and all the while
their coat or skirt is hanging
out of the door, torn and greasy,
dragging the ground. Sometimes
I myself hang up the receivers
of pay phones and tickle
the coin return, a furtive, almost
sexual gesture, only nothing
ever comes out except, once,
a small octagonal coin with a hole
in the middle and markings
no one could understand.