The Ball

Like a ball full of heavy sand I roll around the room. Sometimes leaning toward, sometimes away, But rarely pausing long enough to see where I might be.

It seems I used to roll much faster, also stop more often. Although I can’t with good authority say which is best Or which is the more pleasant.

Of course, en route, I lost my pinze nez. Where? When? Unknown. I cannot bring to mind the day or time of that great loss. Such details are most difficult to carry in such a smallish bag.

It seems I used to own a steamer trunk quite full of faces. The trunk, long since donated to a thrift shop; Plus a face or ten as well that went into said bargain.

And so the noses and the names join stockpiles of ephemera Which I meant to keep; or at least acknowledge their departure. I have been most careless.

Like a ball full of heavy sand I roll around the room. No space to journey far, the no-parking zones abound. I see an exit ramp that offers unknown choices.

I’ll lean that way and see what happens.

JoAnn Tongret