Indication

With a bellyful of bile,
Real bile and not some humor,
Filling body cavities

And threatening self-poison,
One looks for indications,
Aches, mysterious noises

Swanning around the torso,
All the signs it’s getting worse
Against all hopes it isn’t.

There aren’t indicators
Enough in this universe.
One desperate to predict,

And almost as desperate
To influence the outcome
Of the prediction, leans on

The most implausible signs,
Inventing absurd omens—
If there’s no car on this turn,

If that bird begins singing,
If that cloud heads for the sun,
It’s not over, it’s not done.