Image © Doug Paul Case 2017
| by Doug Paul Case | October 17, 2017 |
The natural light in my bathroom
is finicky: blinding at eight and barely
trickling by noon. My neighbor
has a tree. I spend afternoons
calculating other possible orbits, but
really, there aren’t any. Maybe if
we all got out and pushed, we could
find the sun a new angle.
It’s so round. Once I told a stranger
its density physically aroused me,
and yes, that’s a great way
to finish your coffee in the solitude
you were looking for. Never
have I approached someone staring
so intently out the window. Never
is it bright enough. Nothing
lines up correctly and my skin
washes out in the flash.
__________
Doug Paul Case lives in Bloomington, where he recently earned his MFA from Indiana University. His poems have recently appeared in Hobart, Salt Hill, The Adroit Journal, and (b)OINK.