Before the drugs burn in, he bangs around
genially knocking into furniture, flinging
fingers, exuberant hands turning in the air,
forgetting he’s told the tales he’s forgotten
he’s told, feral laughter at the interjection
from the too-loud television
into the riddled container of his perception.
After the ship of his consciousness regains ballast
he burns embarrassment, flaring with melancholic
shame, sinking supine in his recliner, punching
at the clicker with his index finger, cranking cop shows
whose boxed-in authority & stentorian voice-overs,
effect a return to order.
Christopher Michel lives in Birmingham, AL with his wife and two daughters. His poetry has appeared in Stone Canoe, Barrow Street, Assignment Literary Magazine, and others. He is a graduate of Syracuse’s MFA program, and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.