The Spinning Man

A life in darkness
flat on my back
flat on my face
the view never changes.

The hand cuts through the dark,
dragging light in its wake,
blinding me.
The hand sifts through my box,
past building blocks and plastic cars,
and plucks me

out of darkness and into light.
Sometimes everything hangs off the ceiling.
Sometimes everything is stuck to the ground.
Always new faces in the crowd.

Held up on one end, I look around.
Fleeting fragments of the past stick out
before my four-walled world starts to blur.

I spin. Pillow forts turn to white streaks.
I spin. Bookshelves turn to a brown square.
I spin. My box stains the picture purple.
I spin.
I have no choice.

The streaks of light melt back into shape.
I stagger on the spot until I fall on my face.
The crowd applauds.
Footsteps trail away and I’m left to lie,
surveying the world from the corner of my eye.

A breeze may turn me over,
the dust may layer on thick,
but always the hand comes back,
stands me up on one end,

I spin.