Dumb Luck

There was a long haul in the middle
where the tracks faded into dust.
I was out there for some time.
When I got back nothing seemed to fit.
The worst part was becoming angry.
I lost myself in there.
At least the illusion of myself.
I grew envious of those
who possessed what seemed
easy comfort, from a distance.
Like a child I grieved.
I moved around
at the edge of the fires, the light.
There were questions
to feed the flames night long.
Adjustments made,
a few things happened
that said (more or less)
the universe was not done with me (yet).
Purely due to dumb luck.
I say to the leaves and grass
‘nothing surprises me anymore’
but, of course, nothing is further
from the truth.

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Victor Billot is a Dunedin writer. His poetry collection The Sets was published by Otago University Press in 2020.