Wednesday, February 22, 2017



Take a number and hold my place in line.
Spend twenty-five years of life asleep.
Three months in traffic. Forty-eight days
having sex. Cut out the part about bears
feasting at a town dump. Hornets haunting
a summer camp. Stop being a hostage
to the quotidian. Ever hold a megaphone
up to a flower? Wear sadness in a lapel?
Your memoirs are burning. I struggled
to retrieve them from a fire. Some words
are glowing. Others turn to ash. Walk me
through the mis-en-scene. Connect the dots
so the story includes a few minor themes.
Hope amid devastation. Alter egos and
slices of birthday cake. You are tempted
to step out of line for a moment. Realize
when you fail to return, no one notices.
It is best to put the past on shuffle. I retain
rights to my pain and my designer clothes.
The rest is yours: eleven years working.
Fourteen days kissing. Two years watching
commercials. When they finally call out
my number, I'll be ready for my close-up.

By Chris Banks

No comments:

Post a Comment