Natural

Last week as I pass a college building,
a woman is lying on the mulch,
mushing the daffodils. I keep my hair
facing her black clogs, envious I’m not
the one whispering pillow-talk with the
botanicals, wondering if I should stop
too, with the ten or so bystanders hovering.
How many is too many for a concerned crowd?
One person has already called 911, and
there’s a man who tells the woman “keep
squeezing my hand so we know you’re awake.”
Are more furrow-browed bystanders
requested if she stops squeezing, if she
doesn’t want her gathering to know if she
is awake or not, her blue hands turning
a darker shade of violet as we all wonder?
Then my feet keep going, automation. My
body parts are being replaced by metal
insurance policies, not even made of bones
anymore. I don’t even remember dreams
like I used to, too busy forgetting the yellow
scenes snapping by every day. But it’s better
for all the sinking happening more frequently,
it’s what we all need, something to tell us
to stop trying to float.

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