Poetry

Housed in Cubes

Tracing the straight-line arrow of time

Photo by Joshua Sortino on Unsplash.

Cuboid and cave-cold, there’s
no evidence man has occupied this
moonscape, no amount of terraforming will
reverse dead dust, no remorse to fill
its craters,

here humanity is measured
six by nine feet,

dull echoes,
paper-flat air, and cannular train lights dead-
zoning through tunnels, taupe-colored
walls patchy with psoriasis
paint,

leg cast over leg like
fisherman’s line, I am lying, walrus fleshed,
on unsheeted mattress, waiting for future light to
glower, gloam, and fade,

one urine-
colored flower kissed
onto stone,

roll after roll of sink-wet
toilet paper thrown on walls, stuck to
walls, dried to walls, amid the stench of defecation, dust, and pools of piss,
a drain that slurps shower water like dry lips
on dribbling faucets,