45 Bayberry Drive
Set inside a suburban puzzle
Of which I solved 2 years prior.
It’s a plain house.
One point two.
But not that I know of….
So light blue—it’s almost white,
On overcast days you couldn’t tell the difference.
But there is snow everywhere today.
Amongst everything.
And the contrast is clear.
With minus five days
and the sun at once.
Shining white.
Kind of warm.
Despite that—this house….
Standard.
Stock.
Conventional clean.
So conventional that it’s contrary.
I’ve never seen anyone within or without it.
And I would feel weird if it wasn’t there.
Or if they were.
Like something was missing or something was not.
I don’t know who they are and that makes me feel perfect.
It matches my average days,
And when my days aren’t average
I’m not even.
Around—
I could be plastic; all zeros and ones.
It reminds me of a scene I carry in my mind like
a moving photograph. A comfortable flash.
Something I return to, whenever the oversoul
and my impressions clash.
Wherever this originated I could never remember.
I hope I never do.
I would rather always not know if it was real or a dream
or what that difference is.
And this vague recollection has no other connection than that of its air.
And the air is all I know.
I don’t question it—
I just let myself disappear.
Wearing off any unnatural veneer….
To subtly blend into the atmosphere.
This is what makes it all matter.
The fact that:
Sometimes I can’t tell if I’m even alive—
When I’m passing 45 Bayberry Drive.
Inicia sesión para comentar.
