Poem

Dollhouse

Last lunches suck.

You had turned your head,

swollen eyes waterlogged red.

By then

we’d given up all hope.

To go on seemed dumb,

an effort entirely unreasonable.

But I noticed that your coffee cup, half full,

suddenly seemed

to be shrinking.

Miniaturized, like gazing

through the wrong end of a telescope,

a tiny dollhouse accessory

delicately pinched between finger and thumb.

But perspective is all relative.

Maybe it wasn’t even lunch.

No one was hungry.

The food remained untouched.

All the things were still the same old size

But the distorting effects of distance:

the way cars become toys

and people seem like ants

when the plane rises into the sky

Or a rocket blasting into orbit:

the moment when the seal on the airlock breaks

and everything I adore

sucked
into the void of space.

I can still see them, tiny specks,

soon to be indistinguishable from stars.

And I’m still here clinging to this iron bar

as hard as i can; it hurts.

(Smack the red button)

It’s just a reflex.

And the doors start to close.

Soon gravity will be restored.

Everything returns to its proper perspective.

But I have a few seconds:

time has started to go slow:
all I’d have to do is just let go


4/15/19