by Mark Bibbins
I recently rescued a supermarket
bag from the crotch of a tree,
found fewer shields than souvenirs,
figured out how to game the pain scale
and opted not to. Water the color
of watery tea comes through
the light figure on a holiday
when nobody can come plug it up
and make us regret complaining.
Nothing like a movie to remind you
that you never travel and a lot
of almost fornicating happens
a mere floor or two above the one
you’re on. Shoulder, TV flicker, flash
of back. I’ll make up a name and try
to affix it to whoever left these four
white doors on the sidewalk, which
I dragged home two and one
at a time. In daylight they reveal
the smudges left as tenants groped
one spot, then the next–hall, stairwell,
street, the mess just beyond, forest
on the opposite side of the globe.
There’s always the absurd
woven into each nest I build and hop
around, waiting for the right one
to wander in. The right one
is the one who wanders in.
Last updated December 12, 2022