Act Minus One
by Yogi Carmichael

Life toys with me: cloth catnip mouse 
careening against walls that shudder,
carried in mouth, dropped in gutter.

Played, bringing brief happiness
then nonexistent.
Where do i go? Shade 
swallows me; where no light is, 
am i.

You cannot see me 
watching the shadow play 
the writhing marionettes, me 
looking for a place 
with my name on it (even an obit),

watching others touch 
the hem of God, 
take all the virtue 
from the great I AM.

i am not, it seems.
Time scurries through the pipedreams 
like monster water beetles—
standing still to escape notice,
then flitting down the drain.
Hard to catch, impossible to hold.

Creatures of the sea, air, earth, ether, fire 
have places to lay their heads (even a foxhole).
i do not, it seems.
None feels as home-warm

as old sandals formed to fit calloused feet
treading water, plodding the old 
desert dirt backroads;
the dented pickup carrying dogs in the open bed,
bumping against the night, inhaling the sky.

i watch this, not guessing my role 
(no picture on the cover) nor receiving directions
for a part in the odd drama.
Mine must be a comedy
too funny for words
where the play is the thing
that life toys with.

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