Dear Postmodern Slinkie
One time, I saw a slinkie in an elevator--
trapped in that metal box, a forlorn
mortal coil, such metaphors were obvious.
It reminded me how I felt tricked
& trapped at a Palm Sunday mass
& you could've stamped JEW
across my reddened forehead
as I was told at length how my
people did awful things to Jesus--
How I clung to a palm frond
like a crucifix! If I'd only
had you, slinkie, to keep me;
we need to stick together.
Dear slinkie, I feel kinship
with your awkwardness,
your lack of context as none
of the yuppies who scatter
gum wrappers around you
will stop to reassure your anxiety.
If there be a heaven (once
maintanence throws you away)
let it be the grandest staircase
steeper than building code allows
us on this mortal plane,
you deserve it for affirming
in your small, cheap-metal way
that postmodern angst
should not turn us into solipsists,
should not turn us from
a slinkie-like heart of humanity
that expands & contracts
when asked by circumstance.
I'm sorry, truly sorry
for not picking you up
& releasing you down
a staircase and into the forever--
like opening the butterfly jar
or uncaging an alligator
it could've been so beautiful
even though I know you'll never
love me: like the wild
don't you just want to be free?
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