Sitting here, my peripheral vision decreases,
I feel important as eyes are forced to
to gaze toward the back of my head.
Up here, I see things more clearly,
I’ve got a better seat in the house.
The girl’s hair is blacker,
her skin glows more
I can hear the inconstant validity of her sniffling
in austere surround-sound.
My perception is greater —
loose pipes spilling out clear and soluble water
in a cylindrical, constant stream.
I remember it smelt like chemicals in that room,
years of studying the mystery of the periodic table
was baked and seasoned in,
back and forth.
Those two were the celebrities,
whom I gazed at all through the year,
In the winter I dissociated into the weaves of their J. Crew sweaters,
I watched her tight ponytail bobbing up and down in
the curve of her back
as the snow fell,
and it was perfect —
her mediocre sized bra strap peeked out
with just the perfect tinge of conspicuousness.
And then, one dewy spring day,
I was surprised.
From below the rich chestnut locks of her tightly bound hair,
led a naïve path down to the collar of her shirt,
white, starched, and perfect as it was.
Scattered on that path, like invisible rocks on a dirt road,
sprouted the familiar sight of
a cluster of pink, newly formed,
Categories: Original Poetry