When the air clears (a poem)

Starting from a line from today’s ‘love notes’ entry…

I have to be myself now, don’t I?
The prefab model has outlived its usefulness;
modified and jury-rigged over the years,
it wasn’t meant for long-term use.
At four in the morning,
it’s all about the exit fee they want me to pay
but can’t prove they can collect—
yet I still can’t find a way out.
A pair of gorilla arms
reaches through the walls and grabs me
as I try to select the destination for my ticket;
I awake to find my hand wedged between
the cushion and the sofa.
On the other side of the room,
the characters on the TV show
are talking about a big sandwich.
I press a button on the remote
and go back to sleep.

(11 December 2017)