Your clock—
the one that’s worth
something, and the banjo
that has been in the family
a century, the cherry music
stand she had made
for your birthday,
the prototype
carbon fiber chair
you snagged
from the basement,
and lastly, the books—
ones you’ve read
or never will— bear
with me—
all condense
into a polished black
stone worth the value
of the aforementioned
bounty— in your tunnel
vision fantasy before bed.
And staring into the dreams
to come, you salivate
over the force of such
a stone, one with
the power to shuttle
you across white seas
of clay to the blue-footed
boobie diving arches
of a dank mine,
where, trapped
behind a black cloud
of earth, is a man, grappling
with the night’s almighty prism.
Mike Wheeler 