If the bloodied cat and the pâpier-maché heads on the floor weren’t enough, every street corner pavement square or metal grate is a new entry to a slow-motion, one-way drop beneath the city and points beyond (a poem)

Dreams.…

That’s how I got into this mess
to begin with

Usually I fall and fall and keep falling
and when I can take no more
I open my eyes
to make sure I’m still here
where I was before they closed for the night

Last time I fell just long enough
to wonder how long it would be
until my legs would shatter
before I found myself approaching a different corner
with a loose square in the pavement
watching a bird set down as I took my next step

This time I saw the bottom
maybe eighty feet or so below
and widened my would-be stance
Matrix-style
to stop the descent

I lifted myself up to a deserted floor
of brittle wooden pillars
a woman carrying laundry
and a scraggly orange dog
that couldn’t make up its mind
whether I was friend or foe

Come to think of it
the entire scene had an orange cast
down to the voices
menacing from behind the pâpier-maché heads
agitating at the top of the stairs
leading down into the darkness of nowhere

But the laundry was a bleached-clean white
and the blood was red

I began looking for the next loose square

(11 September 2018)

 


 

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