Punditty's Poetry Corner

Fireflies in Synaptic Space
Create Complicated Chemical Reactions

By Darren Richardson (Special to The Punditty Project)

I used to kill them
with bulbous plastic baseball bats,
cheaply assembled tennis rackets,
bare hands. No tears
when they died, just slimy bright goo
gone dull, squished and unblinking
between summer thumb and finger flesh
as the encroaching darkness
stole in like a purposeful blanket
and made all our individual lights
seem laughable and frail,
disconnected and inadequate,
alone and closer to bedtime.

The distance between here and there
changes every moment without
changing at all; I buy into relativity
like some gullible apeman
waiting for dessert, waiting for
the pretty pie over which I’ve salivated
since morning, one eye scanning for sweets,
one eye charting the sun’s sky-high journey
through protective welding goggles
or reasonable facsimiles thereof,
dualistically staring, daring,
always nearing whatever phantom shadow
or very real brick wall
might finally flatten this mortal flash
of human flesh,
this meat and these bones,
this certain Oneness disguising itself
with an endless spill of forms.

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