We live with what comes. Job knew:
no prayer or penance or polemic will do.
When legions of boils deploy to our backs
we sleep on our sides and bear the attack.
And when, inevitably, both sides are shot
we quickly come to realize it’s not
in actual practice more demanding
to have our nightmares while we’re standing.
Before too long, of course, the feet
erupt, and just as we’re getting the feel
of sleeping in corners on our heads,
the scalp starts going in shreds.
And when we’re as sore as we can get
we get the news: it’s all a bet
between old pals over drinks at dinner,
and we have to sleep with the winner.