Sucked Up Into Pockets

my new t-shirt from Threadless

I wonder where all the things I see on tv go,
all the things in movies and in old photographs.
Where are the millions of lamps and pairs of pants
and those ashtrays and the piles of wood panelling?
It does not seem feasible that we carted it all off to the dump.
I've only ever seen a couple of dumps in my life,
and neither impressed me much with their size.

Part of me is suspicious.
I imagine that there are breaks in our time and space continuum,
that we make up the logic to explain
how we're not piled under with discarded refrigerators and armchairs.

Things are disappearing unaccountably,
and it happens to people, too. It must.
Think of all the people you know and all the babies you've met.
Now think of how many funerals you hear about.
The numbers just don't add up.

Me and this couch I'm sitting on?
We could just up and disappear, just get sucked up into an errant pocket,
and time would fold over that spot where I was and move on,
Your histories would rearrange to understand the absence.
I'm sure of it.
The numbers just don't add up.

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The above poem is a response to Amy Turn Sharp's call for 5-minute breakfast poems on Fridays during the month of April.

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