What the Soul is
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.