Emerson Was Here

 

Emerson makes little sense to me

and I’m not allowed to read Gaines

and this deja vu keeps haunting me

like you know who and I want to run

away, but am bound by some

mysterious force clutching at my ankles

and the clock on the wall never

seems to speed up, but at least time

doesn’t stop so I can be thankful

for that and for much more in fact

and maybe Thankfulness is the name

of the creature attached to my ankle,

which I still haven’t looked at yet

for fear that it is hideous and ugly

like those trolls in Norse legends,

but on the other hand to use a tired

cliché in my rush, it could always

be a cute little puppy nipping

at my Achilles and if I never

look down I can at least imagine

that to be the case just like

I can pretend to understand Emerson.