Underworld

Particles moved across my vision
like my eyes were just transparent
plastic slides lit up by overhead projectors.
I’m stapling fliers to the telephone poles
about a missing cat that isn’t mine,
but still worries me when I’m up awake at night.
In a vintage electronics store I buy an alarm clock
because the burning bright red numbers
are the only light I want for telling time.
A performance artist on the street
talks gibberish to me while I desperately
try to dial a payphone. I only use it
because for a moment I have forgotten
what the code is to unlock my fucking screen.
The plastic shell around the keypad
and the coin slot was covered in drawings
of aliens, genitalia, and full transcriptions
of drug dealer area codes.
Eventually there was a crowd around me
all listening in on a call I hadn’t dialed
until I got to the point where I gave up
on everything and lifted up the sidewalk tile
next to me where a staircase there descended
to the underworld.
I’m still living down there now sending these away
tied to the tails of cats that wander in and out.
This group included the one I put up posters for.
She seems happy when I see her most of the time,
still hasn’t gone home though.
It’s unlikely I will ever see the day.