There is a large, fur-covered backpack on the spare bed.
When I sit up to look at it, it shakes and growls.
Is this happening in the real world or my head?
It is speaking now, a language without vowels
that I do not understand. This means I’m sane,
I hope. It really pains me to encounter
a backpack bouncing on a counterpane.
I’m reminded of Medusa when she found her
self skiing down a glacier without poles,
or helmet, obviously, or even skis.
She closed her eyes and slung her snakes like stoles
around her throat and screamed, ‘No fantasies!’
It is dangerous to dismiss as silly fear
the evidence that this president is crazy
and that his desire that drives him is to end the world
in what he offhandedly calls nuclear holocaust.
‘There were squirrels the size of squirrels, and a rock-like rock.
I ran through a glade in the forest
like someone running through a forest glade.
The sun shone through wintry leave-stripped branches
the way light shines through tree limbs that have lost their leaves.
On the leaf-choked forest floor a burrowing squirrel
burrowed like…’ Enough. I get the message.
The late August sun sees fine, fat spiders sleeping.
They drift in dreams that scud among their eyes
like tiny mimics of the clouds’ light leaping
to tag the sun that bathes the August skies.
One spider had a fly beside her weeping
at tales she whispered, wrapping him in lies
and myths. She sleeps. He struggles, accepts fate,
as he thinks back on the smaller beings he ate.
When the roles of Dives and Lazarus reversed,
it was, tellingly, outside of the observable world.
You’ve got your Abraham there, preaching down from Heaven,
Lazarus sitting by him, smug, snug, watching Dives
burn in Hades for not being generous.
The scene’s set in the hereafter, as it must be.
In this world, which is the only world that’s real,
so far as any of us has ever seen,
the rich keep getting richer and do fine
ignoring the Lazari. They call them lazy.
Pretending to quantify the unquantifiable.