Literary Yard

Search for meaning

‘Hooked’ and other poems

By: Carl Papa Palmer


Kristy sent an email, said click this link
filling my screen with a YouTube video
of a fish in a fishbowl for nine seconds
before flashing to view kites crashing.

Watching, fascinated, fixated, besieged
by nine second clips of obvious amateur
movies, consumed, intrigued, afflicted,
addicted, conflicted on what I’ll see next.

Possessed, obsessed, I watch water boil,
paint dry, grass grow, more fishbowls,
unable to stop or wanting to stop since
opening her email almost six hours ago.

Just this one last nine second segment,
then I’ll stop. Finger lingers over pause,
check clock for time to view one more
after this one, only nine seconds, right?

I didn’t read why Kristy sent the email,
only opened and clicked the hypertext.
I’ll check what she said about it in a bit,
but first I need to watch one more video.

I’m turning into Dad

The ringing interrupts watching the football game.
Both phone and remote sit on the couch beside me,
I grab one blindly, hit a button and my TV turns off.

Finding my phone I listen to the recorded message.
Some salesman selling something, happy I missed it,
however, not happy I’ve now misplaced the remote.

I’m turning into Dad

My day began reaching for my glasses on the dresser.
Not seeing them there or any other place I searched,
until I looked back on the dresser to find them there.
How long before I’ll need glasses to find my glasses?

I’m turning into Dad

Back in the day, Dad asked if I believed in the Hereafter.
I said of course I did. He replied that he did too saying,
Every time I come into the room,
I wonder what I came in here after.

Not much different than me today at the grocery store
wandering the aisles, no idea what she’d sent me to buy,
while I fill my cart with what I hope was on the list I lost.

I’m turning into Dad

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