Leaf
Mother, I am doing well here.
They said there’s nothing wrong with my liver,
and they gave me a new medication:
Zoloft, it’s called.
I am doing well, very well.
Much better than before.
I am here in a neutral paradise,
safely tucked in from the outside world
that lies just out of my window.
I look out at the sunset
every evening,
and I take it all in:
The church that lies in the distance
with the large steeple tower,
the cars in the hospital’s parking lot
neatly aligned
like dominoes laid down flat on a concrete table,
the distant Manhattan buildings
sort of fading,
and the tiny people going about their lives
like sturdy ants that take life on their backs
as a leaf,
not as a burden,
but as a weight to carry
that they are able to withstand.
Mother, I am an ant, aren’t I?
An ant with missing legs,
a nuisance and a bother.
We are all scrambling, scrambling around
tiny little insects
compared to the ever expanding universe
that has no boundaries.
I think about all these things
as the warm soothing sun,
a delicious ripe orange in the sky
goes slowly
down..
down..
down..
from this part of the world..
and
up..
up..
up..
into another land where someone,
maybe someone like me,
is waking up in a place like this,
thinking about how we are all ants,
and how that person
wants..
to turn over a new leaf.
