It’s Not a Sign of Anything

To the bitter end, we were scientists.
We discovered the sigh
While researching the anti-knot.
We were on our elbows tying one on.
It was smoggy in the city and we wore
Gasmasks, but fireflies kept tickling
Our noses. Old wives’ tales
In jars in the barn, a horse’s face
Peeking into the living room window,
The evening was an absurd puzzle.
Our own work was paramount, but we kept
Lashing out, sighing in unison, apologizing,
And then slipping up again. It was a tragic loop.
We were on the verge of discovering
The secret of everything – the frayed world
Like a big landfill, why everyone’s so bent out of shape –
But the smog kept getting thicker until
The air was like a swamp and it was laborious
To even breath. Our bronchi were in knots
And it was looking like we couldn’t be
Resuscitated, the sigh of life breathed back
Into us. Even so, we tried in vain to stay
To the bight of our research because we were not
Wearing the kind of lab coats one takes
Seriously enough to die in.