What the Soul is

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Soul is the furniture in my waiting room:

barbed wire argyle couch, end tables made of

MG wire hubcaps, a 60 watt brown sugar lamp

with chain mail pull cord—overheated

into molasses puddle, drained into ears and nose,

a terrible head cold for the body.


So it got a little too far behind schedule meeting

appointments of those coming and going,

now the furniture is being repossessed by Sears

attendants uniformed in my blank stares.


If the soul was out-of-body what would it wear?

Pumpkin spice and paper cuts, pink sequined

strappy shoes and a beret.  An orchid corsage.


When a soul vanishes does it reappear in a

California wax museum—does it suck pictures

off the wall on its way out, canceling

its appointments with the secretary

who sits at her Tupperware desk? (on Mondays

the lid fits too tight, nothing molds)


The repossessors take everything

except the zip lock phone jack and

a charcoal paper clip from the secretary’s desk

to make an antenna that calls out s.o.s.—

Soul can’t hear itself think through congestion

and threatens, That’s it!  I’m outta’ here!


But if my soul could just wait a little

longer into the night, it would recover from

its impatience.  It would find itself in

the comfortable angora chairs with mica

arm rests, with plenty of magazines

crocheted from moss and mulberries

with feet sinking into carpet,

thick enough to protect me from

remembering my Soul ever tried to leave.

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