the poetry of Charles Fry

3 January 1995

my plastic house

i look around at my plastic house
with its plastic windows and plastic doors
and plastic shelves and plastic beds
and plastic light and plastic dust
and even an aging plastic stain on the ceiling

then i realize that it is all superficial
and some how unreal
and in my anger i open my plastic box
and remove a metal hammer
and shout brave threats at the empty walls

but as the echo returns
in its pitiful nothingness
i pause and realize that this is all i have
and if it is destroyed . . .

as my eyes gaze down at the floor
a crack appears and grows
and starts reducing my plastic house
to a pile of earthquake rubbage

Copyright © 1995 Charles Fry