I trace my thumb along your ancient nautical dwelling.
A sea-top creature, now just a souvenir from another
mass extinction. Freezeframed into crystalline waves of
forever rock. Autographed by God.
What will be known of us from the things we leave behind?
Styrofoam. Dirty diapers. Fractured skulls dredged from
the bog. Little cephalopod, how you grew. Hauled your
entire body into the next chamber.
Sealed off the old, too cramped quarters of your past. Time
after time, until the asteroid hit. There’s a pair of gray pants
in the closet. My stomach expanded beyond its waistline. No
squeezing back in. Yet, there they hang. Creased and cuffed.
Seth Rosenbloom is a poet and consultant to companies on leadership and management. His poems have appeared in On The Seawall, Ilanot Review, Midway Journal, and other publications. His poetry has been nominated for Best of the Net and has been a finalist for the Tom Howard/Margaret Reid Poetry Prize. Seth grew-up near Washington DC and lives in Seattle.