Restaurant
I exist. I know that much. In the terminal I am counting
out change, I am counting on my fingers in the Fibonacci
sequence, I am running out of fingers and hands. Yet again
I find myself without a seat in the plane out of here. I am
running out of change, I cannot call, I cannot even make a
single call to say, sorry, but I can't make it. The terminal is
empty, and I can see the plane of tomorrow descending
upon the cool, dark ground of being. Today's plane is
gone. I am running toward the disembarking passengers in
my dream but they do not see the cluemaker counting on
my fingers and the numbers failing to arrive. It has been
weeks since I have heard a sound; for months I have seen
nothing. Sometimes I sleep. On waking, I detest my
decision, which I play over and over in what is left of my
mind. I want to make a painting of a world without
entropy. I want to, I must, and I will read this painting
aloud alone before everything is completely cold.
-- mps (more poems)