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.
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
which takes a feeble, febrile idea
and kids it
with white nights, red clouds,
and 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,
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
and mad little boys.