by Glen Martin Fitch
Alone, with friends,
a date, amid a crowd
I shuffle up an incline,
down a stairs.
Why does the music
always seem so loud?
I navigate the knees
and coats and chairs.
And, as the house-lights dim,
my gut grows tight.
The endless ads bear down.
The trailers race.
I'm stretched
with sinking feet,
a skull too light.
I sense the pained look
twisting on my face.
I can't remember
what I've come to see.
My head's confused,
cold hands,
dread fills my heart.
Did I forget
what fiction does to me?
As from atop
a roller-coaster cart
the screen I scan
"Oh shit."
I'm caught in this.
Once more I’m speeding
toward a new abyss.
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ABOUT THE POET ~
Glen Fitch is a 16th Century poet lost in the 21st Century. Born near Niagara Falls, educated in the Catskills, thirty years on the Monterey Bay he now lives in Palm Springs. Retail not academics has paid the bills. Someday he will finish Spenser's "The Fairie Queene."
Last updated August 23, 2011