Christine N Rifkin – Author

Early summer showers, the rain falls sideways.

The spider-infested Spanish moss

drips from the branches of the oaks like tears.

That poor beautiful tree.

If only that infectious beard was shaved.

I’ve run by this swamp everyday, 

noticing the corpses of bloated squirrels

and soiled garbage floating in the dark waters of the creek.

I try to distract myself from the dangers

hidden deep in the warm mud and dense foliage.

Perhaps the tentacles of some strange Lovecraftian creature,

or insects yet to be discovered.

Either way, this swamp was not safe.

I blow into my cup of tea,

the steam hitting my face like a damp towel and I remember

how safe I am inside my house in my comfy seat in front of the window.

Under the bed, I’d etch my colorful imagination

on the backs of the wooden slats I rested on at night.

Under my bed, a world where rainbows ruled

and everything done there made sense.

Under this bed, ordinary things transformed into

technicolor echoes of my thoughts and dreams.

Under there, there existed no time, no waste.

No progress except the expansion of these worlds I create.

Out here, the clock spins faster with no signs of slowing

sprouting mounds of flesh and crops of curled follicles.

Inside of me, a new world tortured my heart with promises of love

and thoughts that just never seemed to make any sense.

That bed, I watched it disappear into a dumpster of fallen hope,

colorful remnants of childhood innocence that no longer exists.