This started out as a poem. But it wasn’t, so now it’s this.
I don’t remember the city popping like that when I was there. It’s the grunge of the subway and the stale subterranean air I recall, when I bother to think about it at all.
Those were the bubble years.
I watched the digits tumble, and the salarymen mumble, but I lived in a bubble of my own. Other things were crashing down around me—and I already had enough trouble pushing through the rubble of sticky summer evenings and cold winter monrings, taking refuge in the dark or underground, my return uncertain.
VHS, CRT, and LCD were the lights of my life; sometimes I confused them with the sound as it all went down.
Jagged edges grew dull without cutting a thing. All I noticed were the scrapes and the scratches, and I wondered where I fit in—and how long it would take me to get out.
I didn’t know the rain would follow me home, or that this time I would have no cover. The rope held firm at first, but soon….
It’s all nostalgia now.
I reach out. One day you may respond.
(5 September 2020)
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