Thursday
written by: Nidra Mrduvnak
On the last Thursday of the week,
In a rather slippery sort of street,
Something visits twice and wonders
How many Thursdays are there actually?
Far too many to count, it decides, and moves on.
The street is stretched too thin, smooth but bent.
Intangible. Translucent. And Something visits twice
but forgets what happens in between.
On the last Thursday of the week,
Something visits twice; Once for breakfast,
and then again for breakfast that had gone cold.
Both disappoint.
Amidst the rain and the chatter, Something looks at the food,
the three sharp teeth of a sympathetic fork, the wisps of smoke, of hope.
Both are gone the second time around and the fork lies alone.
The things you cannot touch and the things that you can,
lie on different spheres of reality. The things that you understand
and the things that you never can
are always swapping places, and you’re left
wishing the one where there is the other.
Intangible. Translucent. Utter torment.
The things you want to love, and the things that love you back
both lie on that plate. Untouched.
The three sharp teeth of an unsympathetic fork piercing through reality.
On the last Thursday of the week,
Something gets sucked into the tiny slash cut in the fabric of being,
once after breakfast, once before it gets cold,
to see what happens in between—in life.
Left behind is a wisp of smoke, of hope—slowly dying away.
And an uncertain fork.
