By Ben Nardolilli
Under the heat of the light, I recharge my skin and pretend
I’m outside under the glare of the sun,
It works, after an hour I start to worry about a sunburn,
And I can ignore the fact the lightbulb
Stays in place on the ceiling without rising or setting in the sky,
As if high noon just lasts forever and ever for now
Other attempts at going outside are less successful
In the living room, I look at a tapestry and imagine myself
Out in the woods with trees, flowers, and cats,
It’s not as easy as the lamp though, because the rug is abstract
And now I’m starting to have trouble
Remembering what actual trees, flowers, and cats look like.
Ben Nardolilli currently lives in New York City. His work has appeared in Perigee Magazine, Red Fez, Danse Macabre, The 22 Magazine, Quail Bell Magazine, Elimae, The Northampton Review, Local Train Magazine, The Minetta Review, and Yes Poetry. He blogs at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com and is trying to publish a novel.