I'd imagine myself
in all sorts of strange
and interesting situations,
a veritable Where's
Waldo popping up
in sequential frames.
Selecting one
to counteract
the predicament
I found myself in,
it served to lift me
out of a depression
in my inner landscape,
temporarily displacing
my fears and anxieties.
I speak of this now
because my options
are folding in on themselves
like the torn and tattered
map of a far-off country
I can no longer afford to visit.
Waldo stands on the platform
riffling through his pockets
for a ticket he never bought
in case I happen to look
his way. He tries to
fit in, be part of the scene.
See how pathetic he is
under all that
mute adaptability?
He thinks he's doing me
a huge favour acting
so bland and absorbent:
A gawky human sponge.
Suck it up, Waldo.
This is the last of the gravy.
Soon you'll be required
to stay within a tiny, static
frame of reference,
one in which it will be impossible
to lose yourself.
Travel vouchers will be denied
to all denizens of my imagination,
and that, old friend,
includes you.
When the station closes
down at night,
those who couldn't make it
onto the train will be dragged,
kicking and screaming,
to the edge of the tracks
and pushed into the path
of the oncoming express,
baggage and all.
Your only hope
would be to will yourself
onto that train, Waldo,
but you and I both
know you are incapable
of self-determination.
YOU ARE READING
Express, baggage and all...
PoetryObjects in the mirror are closer than they appear... Just when you think you've put something behind you for good, you look back and find it trails you like your very own comet's tail, lighting a path through the dark. Reading through these pages...
