Oddly, Laughing At Myself

Image borrowed from Bing

Oddly, Laughing At Myself

Oddly, laughing at myself and this hacking cough,
stinging smoke welling in my nostrils, I remember,
inappropriately, that 'cough' is a kigo for winter.

I've done my duty, assured that no one is home
after awakening in a blurry haze
by the one working smoke alarm's insistent buzzing.
A feeling of foreboding dread wells in my stomach -
just for a moment, I want to lose control of my bowels.
The fear of death is replaced by some sardonic irony...

'In front of the television as a little boy,
I watch a news report from Vietnam.
The film is shocking,
but I can't tear my eyes away from the screen.
A Buddhist monk is sitting totally immobile
as he slowly becomes immolated in greasy smoke.
Demonic tongues of fire lap at the air above him,
while his body, seemingly at peace,
exorably tips over with a macabre finality,
a hollow, charred husk, as though his soul,
if there were such a thing,
wafted airily away from his body.
Without seeing, I could only imagine
the expression on his face.'

The acrid smoke from century old wood
quickly fills the room, billowing
and falling unnaturally toward the floor.
As the fiberglass ceiling tiles catch fire,
I realize the effect on my lungs
has knocked me to my knees.
I lower myself down on belly.

Beneath the couch I can see the dog's lost toy,
a cartoon animal figure with a goofy,
smiling face looking back at me.
"So, that's where you went,"
I say to myself with some satisfaction.

I can fully hear the destruction now
as I imagine the full extent of my life,
represented by the meager,
familiar belongings left
that are going up in flames:

Some hand me down furniture
plus a few remaining antique pieces
that belonged to grandmother,
the blown glass ornaments on the artificial tree,
collected over decades,
my three volumes of Japanese poetry,
the only ones I own,
gifts from the authors
from countries across the globe,
beautiful renderings in books of ukiyo-e prints,
the old family photographs on the wall.

A small aperature of escape remains
above the worn carpeting.
I can see the winter light
from the window lying in a pool,
a beacon of safety somehow gone askew.

Sighing, I lay my head down
on the rough texture of the floor
in utter calm and resign myself to rest.

Loud voices, flashing colored lights,
and brilliant cold beneath me.
Looking up, I see a fireman's ruddy face.

"You're gonna be fine, buddy."
The odd sensation of breathing oxygen
through a rubber mask.
"We're taking you down to Regions
for awhile, get you checked out."
Out of a compelling sense of courtesy,
I offer an affirmative blink.

Looking down at my smoke-smudged form
on a sheet of crisp snow, I notice
the dog's toy clutched loosely in my palm.
The stars are startlingly bright over the city.

William Sorlien

aka: Bandit

Posted over on Applehouse Poetry