Wednesday, March 08, 2023

Poem for Wednesday and Queen Anne Waterside

The Carousel
By Zachary Schomburg

I’m in a carousel.
The kind that spins
people to the wall.
There is a woman
and a man and a man
inside of it too,
and a man operating it.
Everybody I love is
looking down at me,
laughing. When I die,
I’ll die alone.
I know that much,
held down by my
own shadow, wanting
to touch the woman,
the man, the man,
across the curvature.
I won’t be able to even
look. I’m on a train.
I’m a tiny spider.
A tiny star.
Or a giant spider.
When everything stops,
I’ll open the only door
to the carousel and
it’ll be the wrong one
I’ve forgotten entering.


Tuesday was another uneventful day that started with me cleaning out some dresser drawers that hadn't been opened in years, where I found kippahs from every wedding and Bar Mitzvah we ever attended, pantyhose that I wore to all those events that now have useless elastic, and a bunch of ancient keychains, pocket mirrors, and movie ticket stubs from college. We had some more craigslist and freecycling pickups, and we took a walk in the park before eating the leftover Ethiopian food from this weekend. 

My Voyager group watched "Dark Frontier" which we didn't realize until we started didn't have a convenient break between parts one and two, so it was the full movie-length episode, which was fun. Then Paul and I watched This Is Where I Leave You, which has a fantastic cast with great chemistry and a sometimes great script though sometimes over the top (postmortem family comedies are always strange and everything Jewish is played for a joke). Some waterside views from Queen Anne in Seattle: 








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