Make a Call
By Craig Kirchner
The world keeps getting smaller
and not just because I don’t travel anymore,
everything’s condensed, not just shrinking,
but as though the air has been sucked out of it,
flattened it, made it hard to breathe.
Facebook told me what Abdul was eating
on the other side of the globe, as though he were
around the corner. It also told me bot bullshit that
made me feel fascist, stupid, I cancelled,
and now feel smaller for not knowing about Abdul.
This room knows me, the neighbors don’t.
Since you are gone everything is miniscule,
like a snow globe, with it’s one skyscraper
domed in the liquid that needs to be shook,
but there is no snow, just fog.
There is a decomposition. It is winter
the leaves have fallen, breaking into
red and brown bits, becoming soil.
As my winter progresses there is
a social and spiritual decaying.
I need to breathe air back in, douse it
with water and hope hydration gives it shape,
shake it, hope for words to fly like confetti.
Maybe I should travel again, see a friend,
write a letter, a poem, make a call.
Craig is retired and living in Jacksonville because that’s where his grandchildren are. He loves the aesthetics of writing, has a book of poetry, Roomful of Navels and has been nominated three times for Pushcart. He was recently published in Decadent Review, Chiron Review, The Main Street Rag, Hamilton Stone Review and about eight dozen others. He houses 500 books in his office and about 400 poems on a laptop. These words tend to keep him straight.