A Scratch on Infinity’s Arm

“It must have come in the night
when I slept, dreaming of
a godly party where ambrosia and
nectar were merely appetizers.”

Infinity shakes off the hangover
The headache of bubbling supernovas
He stumbles to the already steaming coffee machine
Drains a planet’s ocean for his caffeine needs

Infinity crosses the kitchen to grab his phone
His uneven footsteps deified by ululating men in loincloth
His bathrobe pockets are filled with the crumbs of galaxies that never were
His eyes caked with the dust of galaxies that never will be.

Infinity lies to the boss, a false illness in his voice
Two million people cough themselves to death
He climbs back into bed, swaddles himself with
blankets made from a thousand forests
and falls asleep dreaming of the work to be done tomorrow