Past My Summit

Ducking into a dive
I unfurled my foil (filled with confectioner's sugar)
and hopped back
wearing double-high platforms.

Nobody had me down.
I was on top of the New Year's Ball.
It fell, and so did I into the new year
not remembering my old address.

"He moved three years ago, man."
"That's a bank now."
"Tore it up for the boulevard."

I was old.
Older than my walking stick.

I hung pictures of Sunkist oranges
on my tenement wall, thinking about a pair of socks.

I finally sat next to the flies
and Uncle Sigmund d.1939
said hello.

Beyond purple.
Round-trip ticket guaranteed.

--from the Unofficial Journals of Rick Draper