0038 Underthings Poem by Michael Shepherd

See this table top. Smooth, waxed
to a point, a soup stain which perhaps
a finger nail will lift. Beneath the surface,
atoms, molecules, tension and release,
law and freedom play out a drama
which the teacup does not know or tell.

And so, much else. All. And so the mind.
As if, webcamming the family at play,
the screen jumpcuts, plays on the screen
your inner life for all to see; the family freeze, cold,
open-mouthed…

Two years ago, I eased myself into a chair,
anticipating pleasant conversation – but instead
the camera of the mind presented, in full colour,
a glowing red-hot sphere, like
a sunset on a dusty day. Or Mars, more like,
in all its fierce, fearsome anger – anger
stayed on that screen for six whole weeks
while body, mind and soul perhaps
played turmoil with its outcome quite unknown.

Just now, I lift my gaze from the crumbs on plate;
the camera points at what it should now screen,
the window; but the mind sees something else,
as clear as mind but rarely seen in mind.
It's saying something new about myself.
Watch the screen; but watch the camera too.