We are weak echoes, made flesh,

from a Ghost’s last shouted wish.

 

Sheryl clearly guessed life’s meaning

as this answer to another query

gassed through her

on a hazy Monday morning.

 

With intuitively-gathered

and well-sharpened fun facts,

she could easily puncture

boyfriend Ted’s toytime theory:

 

We’re just forgotten playthings

of a Child

who grew up

to be a blind and senile

Watchmaker

 

which takes a feeble, febrile idea

and kids it

with white nights, red clouds,

and pink noises—distracting effects

to make it seem wonderfully original.

 

A know-it-all who knows everything

that sits on the level

swinging just above “Nothing,”

Ted’s not annoying enough to ex-out

or significant enough to hate,

but he rests at about the right position

where Sheryl could always comfortably say,

“I’ll just ignore him,

this time.”

 

Now enlightened, she wonders

if “I can create a blank space

to stuff his future bluffs in”—a dustbin

for all the pretentious wise statements

he’s sure to make.

She stares, unblinking,

at the invisible waves of pink noise

until she freaks out, thinking

she sees the broken bodies

of dolls,

and mad little boys.