Monday, April 15, 2019

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 let go


4/15/19


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