Hannah Seo
thoughts at the end of a much-too-long shift
1 I read on the stall of an airport bathroom
that nothing is ever original. My thoughts pennies pressed out of
one of those gaudy
souvenir booths: worth
neither the medium with which they were crafted
nor the energy
used to carry them to their final
resting place. Pockets
heavy but mind light, I concede to nap
on the grass by a parking lot and call it
rest. You would think with all my fancy education
that I would understand bi-ology or psych
-ology or the
-ologies of what it means to be
a stalk of wheat, or a forsaken water-bottle
in a landfill. Instead my synapses fire
on pre-set conditions that die
with a nap, or one (too many) glasses
of whisky. At the ripe old age of ripped tennis shoes and crumpled coffee
receipts even I can understand
that what grows up must lie down.
2
Tying your hair back is always an adventure because you never expect
when the elastic snaps
back to whip your wrists which
is kind of a messed-up
life lesson. Every day is a practice
of decisions and revisions and
too many fatalities. Memento mori, and god
bless us every one.
3
In a bowl of alphabet soup I searched
for a sign — and I saw
myself in the foreboding “M E”, though
the “E” was
upside-down and possibly
part of some
less-telling configuration.
It is surprisingly difficult
to differentiate the profound from all this
utter nonsense.
4
In second grade I pinky
promised my loyalty to a boy with a long pale
face who I am convinced was the grim reaper.
5
I tried to learn tidying up from a book
passive-aggressively gifted to me by
someone who is never around. Unfortunately, I can never tell which thoughts
bring me joy and so never know which
to throw away. The soup marks on my jeans
are a neo-postmodern
Rorschach test and now all I can
think about is why Tide pens never work
the way they say they will. I drop a handful of
change into a tip jar and pray
my stains are impermanent.
Originally published in Paragon Press, Aug 2019.