There is a falling. It is not the same thing
as a narrative of falling. Popeye falls.
The cigarettes are gone. The smoke is exhaled.
The candy sticks that replaced the cigarettes
are gone.
The inks and glues delaminate. The whole world
no longer fills a little box.
But the sugars, the sugars are not
exactly gone. They leach into the earth
which is sweeter now than it was before
and even that won’t save it. All of the objects
are altered. Your hands are altered.
Not better, but different.
Not worse.
But raw with the weather and nicotine
from before, and all the lotion you rub
into your fingers won’t get rid of it.
That’s the narrative. The box
on the other hand, just fell.
♦
Monty Reid is an Ottawa writer. His most recent book is Meditatio Placentae (Brick Books). He is Managing Editor of Arc Poetry Magazine and Festival Director at VerseFest, Ottawa’s international poetry festival.
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