Portrait of Late 21st Century Bricoleur

- after "When the Universe granted my prayer 
I didn't want it anymore," Natalie d'Arbeloff; 
acrylic on canvas board, 10 x 14 inches



After the multiplexes and carnivals 
closed for good, I learned to build 
little rafts out of brittle waffle cones 
patched together with leftover 
sunscreen and saltwater taffy. 
If some dudes managed to rig 
wire and feathers to their arms 
with honey and beeswax, why 
couldn't I use my own native 
resources? But looking out 
over the lip of my wobbly 
Ferris wheel saucer, I realized 
water might be the only way 
left to go. No one wanted to get 
on a plane anymore since runways 
and airport terminals were littered 
with the bones of negative pressure 
room tents. Sometimes, streaked
by moonlight, they looked like giant 
blue cocoons whose flaps 
were shredded in a gale. The air 
inside had long left the building—
perhaps, also the ghosts 
that once curled up on cots.
I'd prayed for a destination 
that wasn't here, yet not too far 
in the there, there of ambiguous 
reassurance. I remembered 
some of the things we used to say
to each other—like the one about 
the world being your oyster; or
how the endless horizon means
beyond imagining or don't look back.
 

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