Restaurant (thing)

Restaurant

I exist. I know that much. In the terminal I am counting out change, I am counting on my fingers in the Fibonacci sequence, I am running out of fingers and hands. Yet again I find myself without a seat in the plane out of here. I am running out of change, I cannot call, I cannot even make a single call to say, sorry, but I can't make it. The terminal is empty, and I can see the plane of tomorrow descending upon the cool, dark ground of being. Today's plane is gone. I am running toward the disembarking passengers in my dream but they do not see the cluemaker counting on my fingers and the numbers failing to arrive. It has been weeks since I have heard a sound; for months I have seen nothing. Sometimes I sleep. On waking, I detest my decision, which I play over and over in what is left of my mind. I want to make a painting of a world without entropy. I want to, I must, and I will read this painting aloud alone before everything is completely cold.

-- mps (more poems)