We are weak echoes, made flesh,
from a Ghost’s last shouted wish.
Sheryl clearly guessed life’s meaning as this answer
to another query gassed through her on a hazy Monday morning.
With intuitively-gathered and well-sharpened fun facts, she could
easily puncture boyfriend Ted’s toytime theory:
We’re just forgotten playthings of a Child
who grew up to be a blind and senile Watchmaker
which takes a feeble, febrile idea and kids it with
white nights, red clouds, pink noises—
distracting effects to make it seem wonderfully original.
A know-it-all who knows everything that sits on the level
swinging just above “Nothing,” Ted’s not annoying enough to ex-out
or significant enough to hate; but he rests at about the right position
where Sheryl could always comfortably say, “I’ll just ignore him,
this time.” Now enlightened, she wonders if “I can create
a blank space to stuff his future bluffs in”—a dustbin
for all the pretentious wise statements he’s sure to make.
She stares, unblinking, at the invisible waves of pink noise
until she freaks out, thinking she sees the broken bodies of dolls,
and mad little boys.