Like an air mattress filled with one too many lung-fulls of air,
We float in suspended expectation;
Row of port-holed windows looking out just
Waiting for that pin prick to send us, blathering,
Careening, spitting, like a balloon let loose
‘til the last breath has been sucked out
And thrown elsewhere,       expired           a bout de souffle.
Until then, a “diorama” – the sort from elementary school art class –
Is spread out below humorously lifelike, yet
Inconceivably small and distant.
Sectioned off with bits of string, paced out with a ruler,
It’s a patchwork quilt, all patterned with diamonds
And stripes and checkered pockmarks –
I wonder what slumbering giant lays beneath
Its warmth – is that a toe sticking up there?;
that hillock a knee?
Here and there a strand of tinsel, silver, lays
Strung from last year’s Christmas tree
Tangling its way in a snakey fashion
‘cross fabric and carpet and fern.
If I were a crow I’d swoop down and grasp it in my claw,
Carry it away and stash it in my nest
To stare at it, and preen in its reflection.
But I’m not; these wings are artificial,
I paid a hefty price for them and I’m not even
Given a crack at the yolk.
Feathers slightly ruffling, I’m left
Riding this jet stream, ferried around
In the wake of those ahead of me.
And at some point, those milk-jug houses,
Row on row, the stickered football fields
And ball diamonds and golf courses that
Top a birthday cake in green shredded coconut,
(the water blue rumpled Jell-O)
At some point – one I cannot quite trap under my finger –
In a split second, it seems, it all becomes
My world again. 3D. Normal.

~ by flippingpages on September 4, 2008.