Ghost Leather

As I was standing still the other day at 67 mph
it occurred to me that we don't actually know when we are going
at any given minute, second, moment, nano-instance.
Can you give an accounting?
Can you with a straight face say…

"I am on my way to 10:02 am.
Is that in your set of variables?
Would you like to meet for an atom-splittage or two?"

Or…"I'm backing up to 6:03 on Friday evening,
the second of March '07.
I didn't like how that panned out.
Thought I'd re-warp the synapses and queue it up again."

Somehow I don't think any of this
is crossing our expanse, ever.
Yes, we make appointments.
A general reference to a future
where we fractures of varying speed limits
attempt to dock and exchange abstract flashes.

And we have memories.
Fond (or scarred) reminders,
those little bookmarks of a story line
seemingly natural, shared, implanted
deep into our organic data mine.

But these exercises are extremely futile.
Our vibrations never sync, never.
What we think of as another person,
someone we are exchanging thoughts, hopes,
spit-filled air with, is simply
an illusion, a shadow puppet on
our cell wall, rubbed there by a passing
mote on its over-eager shot
to the center of infinity.

Charlotte Ozment lives on several acres in Texas. She finds words hidden in the world around her and can sometimes put them to paper before they fade.

Find more by Charlotte Ozment in the Author Index.

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