Let the Laces Decide

Let the Laces Decide

At the edge of my visual fishbowl

a melted computer

whines and whispers.


An intrusive neon bulb

shimmers indistinctly above

an arrow of desk aimed at my heel.


My shoes resting on the table

droop their knotted laces

into the momentary center of my world.


Room and body radiate away in warm brown rings,

books consipre in coves,

slightly out of focus, murmurming in groups,


perched like gannets on a cliff,

ready to soar out

and pick over my mind.


What do they want with me?

Should I shoot them down in midflight,

or should I lay down my arms


and welcome the invasion

of other, possibly dangerous

minds? I waffle.


Perhaps I should hire a diviner

to read the knotted entrails of my shoes,

and let the laces decide.