A Shoe in Each of Two Canoes by Heikki Huotari

The moon would be a mirror were
it not a soggy paper plate.

Each universe a simulation of the next,
the eyes of Texas are undressing me,
the dash cam edited selectively,
a beauty mark applied.

King Midas touched my teddy bear
and now I’m value-added. Over
an association I will never be
a member of I may unskillfully preside

then as an object of occasional remote affection,
I’ll feel free to feign surprise at any outcome
I did not design and when I feel a different kind
of rigor mortis coming on, I’ll cross the time line,
amber light be damned.

I’ll know that you exist when you pass
with your tiny exoplanet between me
and my horizon. In my semi-private room,
with my prognosis my profession,
I’ll be your attractive nuisance,
I’ll say, Come on in the water’s fine.

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Heikki Huotari is a retired professor of mathematics. In a past century, he attended a one-room country school and spent summers on a forest-fire lookout tower. His poems appear in numerous journals, recently in The Journal and The Penn Review, he’s the winner of the 2016 Gambling the Aisle chapbook contest. His collection, Fractal Idyll, came out in early 2018.

Photo: Johannes Plenio