What is Left

Small, hard, silver gadget

wedged between The Agony and The Ecstasy 

and the black heels that landed me

my first job.  

The heels I wore all the way

from 55th to 96th and then some.

At 4AM I wake to see

moonlight bouncing off the orphaned steel.

Torn from dreams of Ferris Wheels, eyes

shut and what it feels like

to be stuck, paused, dangling

on top the one day 

your friend doesn't join, I

twist out of the sheets, a snake

shedding its worn identity,

and walk, barefoot, to the piece.

It's not beautiful, this metal tool.

It defies the general warmth

in the room and is severe,

industrial,

next to the round corners of wood

and the sweet stories whispering

between pages.

Picking it up, I cradle it in my hands

and realize it is far heavier

than anything that size should be.

Dense; I suppose that makes sense.

This is what is left.

That night, those mornings,

afternoons brimming with color,

light, and heart, boils down

to a single metal hunk

resting useless on my book case.

In a way I envy it-- its stoic,

expressionless and solid

existence.  Its careless

effortless cool

and nonchalance.

I place it back, release my grip

and notice the moon

has moved on, the room

is black and I cannot

see the path back 

to sleep.