A STILL CONTEMPLATION

There's a window on an inside,
somewhere a few floors up,
passed the green of elevator skin,
passed the door, and the elopement warning.

You’re in this place
to stop falling apart,
to look through a schematic lens
unfiltered—a blinding slit
of moonlight.

What service do these jockeys in white
offer you, a hopeful, hapless jaunt.
You’ve read that repetition is just
another tool for reprogramming—
"What you are experiencing seems normal,"
they say.

So that's it?
Have they finally decided
that for humans,
hospitals are the natural habitat?

A vampire lives there too;
she deeply believes in God
and keeps saying, "I am tired."
And you keep thinking,
"I am too."
So you sleep on soft mountains
and softer sheets.

"You've broken the record," they say.
"No one’s ever been this pointlessly sad at your age before."
They offer you congratulations
in the form of vitamins,
and you nod into
rapid eye movement; in your dream it
began to hail,
your bicycle was frozen too.


By: Jake Edgar 


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A Still Contemplation by Jake Edgar Copyright Reward Publishing 2020

ABOUT JAKE EDGAR


Jake Edgar is a poet, story writer, and journalist. He resides in Portland, Oregon with his wife and four children. He draws inspiration from the overwhelming inequality in the world and from reading writers from diverse backgrounds. He is a fan of Maggie Nelson, Chen Chen, and Roberto Bolaño, among many other artists. His work has appeared in Concis: A Journal of Brevity, The Pointed Circle, and the Bellwether Review. Jake's latest piece, a short story, was published in The Grief Diaries. 


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