Halfway House
By quantummysticist18
Smoke wafts by from another life—
When it clears I find myself staring at a vastly altered scene.
The color of my hat has changed and my mouth holds a pipe,
And the hair has all grown back from my bare scalp.
I shade my eyes with my hand to see the view.
Artists have gathered from every coordinate on the map
To create a masterpiece between the cars on the main drag
Which swerve out of control trying to avoid one another.
There is no rhyme or reason to this spectacle
For poetry should be jagged and upending,
Like waves breaking over the rocks of an ocean beach,
Not smooth or easy or possessing any sense whatsoever.
Vehicular impact on the vital merry-go-round
Breaks us into shards and pieces,
But the smoke comes again and rearranges the stage once more
And I stare at dull reality,
Alone in my little halfway house, as all houses are.