Matt Sumpter

Super Mario in a Retirement Home

 

The others talk, in the afternoons, of falling-

through dreams and dosages,

into the LA-Z-Boys

                               of their spines,

down hallways opening like one long throat.

 

My roommate lifts his leg

            and drops it, lifts and drops.

The end'll be like that, he says, without the bed

            to catch you.

                                  I tell them

falling brought me here.

The scant platforms fell away, and I dropped

into my world's tessellation, small and far

 

from god. I tell them I was a doctor once,

 

and know the fire has left their fingertips.

Look outside, I say, the toothless flowers

            waggle their arms for you.

                                           Their roots

do not swallow them. Today, I push

my nose deep behind their lips

like a lion tamer.

 

Tomorrow, I place my ear

            to a drain pipe and commiserate

 

with water. Like turtles, we can skulk

the earth long after our shells have gone.

 

But when they die, the falling stops.

I can only dive into the deepest pond

wearing a belt of wrenches-

                                             where no clock

or song can follow.

There, I'll meet the algae, coalesce with rocks

 

in their incredible dimensions. I'll rest,

knowing I can finally sink no deeper.