The World Here

By Ron Chelsvig

April 17, 2021

The world here

It’s a bit like being in a place where everything is cold and made of concrete 

and I am a peach

The walls seem smooth but they are cracked and jagged and prickly 

and I am a strawberry

The air smells bad

it’s thick and heavy

and I am a blueberry

There are piles of paper and plastics and wires

And I am a mouthful of tangy, juicy orange slices

The world here believes in things which do not make sense

And I am a bowl of freshly washed, sweet apples 

Things here are sticky and hard to wash off

And I am the zest of a lemon

I watch them try to eat and breath and drink and think money 

Yet I am handfuls of grapes and a tender heart

And there is this escalator with fast steel plates that just keep moving and moving and moving

There’s a lot yelling and anger

What I seek is to hold your hand and know we are okay

Everything here is a shadow of something else

None of it seems real

I often feel I don’t belong here

The little sparrow outside my window is my poet this morning
My Pavaratti, my Rumi, my friend

in the wee hours of dawn her beautiful voice rings soundly with such confidence

I wonder if she knows I am listening

I don’t understand her words, but my heart is pounding with joy

I feel the excitement of a 5-year-old being handed a small box, gift wrapped in shiny, silver paper and a big red bow

I close my eyes and take in her sweet message

Her voice is the only one that makes sense to me right now

She is a cool drink of water

And I am thirsty