The Small Town Was My Small Room

Monday, January 28th By: Nick Marinelli

I’ve come to the surface

from a book of dragons,

missing a gold scale.

The loud quiet.

I have been laying

on my side, on my elbows, on my forearms,

sitting cross-legged.

I’ve lived a past life.

I haven’t eaten in hours.

Glitchy in its way.

the sunset

meets the plastic blinds;

meets the turquoise carpet.

What do I do?

Who am I?

To walk with Mom and Dad

is such a faraway thought.

The story is done.

The taste of my mouth is barren.

And I can almost

see myself standing

in the yard beneath.

This time I find to ooze out

below my bedroom window

facing a sky; it is

purple, pink, peach,

a streak.