Waves of blurred glow emanate
from the neon motel billboard
a throwback to my 5th grade hyphema—
The prospect that I would lose
5% eyesight. Now, flipping
the bathroom switch, light flickers,
settles the mirror, yellow décor—
Terrified at how I’d feel alone and sightless.
Two evictions in as many weeks.
Two moves in as many months.
I walk the dog, legs burning, fluid
pooling around my knees, beers
cannot displace this distance—
I stare at the back of my eyelids,
unsettled by my own wheeze,
wanting only to awake with clarity
after a hard sleep.
Mark Danowsky is a Philadelphia poet, author of the poetry collection As Falls Trees (NightBallet Press), Managing Editor of the Schuylkill Valley Journal, and Editor of ONE ART poetry journal.