I do my best, I make it to the six
square feet in the middle of the city
park where you cannot see or hear cars.
Eyes dimmening, my eyes are failing, I’m
only eligible for a surgery I’m not
eligible for according to my insurance.
According to my insurance, better off
blind. But how would I get to work?
Blinded, the blurred video of aerial
phenomenon, hoping it’s aliens, god,
angles, angels, but, alas, pollution again.
Nothing to unfurl. Final offer amidst
the flowers in the shop designed
to look like a natural wild field. Big
deal, meet me there at the dramateria.
There’s wildlife here somewhere, I’m
sure of it. Something is tearing open
our trash bags. Some proof we haven’t
razed everything, but, alas, pollution
again. It’s bad business to go extinct,
can’t the Invisible Hand of the market
save us? At least there are more roaches,
that must be a boon for whatever
animal loves to eat big fat roaches.
Contact lens failing in the night,
I pretend they’re impalas on the ground,
eagles as they bop into the porch light.
Glenn Shaheen is the author of four books. He teaches creative writing at Prairie View A&M University.
Euphony Journal 