By: Wendy E. Braun
I sit in deep and solemn reveries
contemplating the bowl,
bowel and womb,
sucker for the void.
How many marbles
will divine a universe –
unsteadying the table
until the fall occurs –
break and fracture –
is there more?
Staring at the glossed surface
the beauty of porcelain
white corse beneath the crust.
You wonder at my fixation
knees curled, elbows flat
while you wait with a dustpan
ready to destroy the cosmos
spread before me.
I tell you, “I am God.”
and seasons have come and gone,
like railway cars
whose late passenger stands
staring – wondering if it was in fact
a blown fuse that
stopped the clock and caused
the burnt toast –
he stands
on the same old porch,
surveying the need for yearly repairs,
while fingering a new cigarette
as the smoke swirls against his face
as his thoughts rise around
the what was,
the what never was,
the will she,
might she,
does she still, and
I think to myself
how thankful
I am that he
does not,
will not,
could not know
a damn thing –
something like smoke.
Wendy E. Braun - This Existence 