my lurid pantomime

By Lee Zumpe

the softness of the carpets,

light filtered through bottle-glass windows,

an artificial tree, its branches stretching,

unfolding, grasping for life it cannot attain.

it’s me there, on the floor,

my head on a patch of uncovered terrazzo,

family members engaged in seasonal chatter,

while I imagine walking across the ceiling.

I tune it all out, the droning voices,

flashes of melodrama, discomfort,

dormant feuds simmering

underneath a lurid pantomime.

generations of secrets and tragedies

distilled into scrapbook snapshots –

their distant expressions frozen,

forgotten, grasping for life they cannot attain.