A Rubber Band World

The world is just a

Rubber band.

Rubber bands. A ball of

rubber bands.

 

In ripping one off, its elastic

keeping it together, the rest are

collectively unfettered by the

absence of its kin.

 

In ripping off two, it’s but coincidence

to do without extra support.

The others hold happy rapport.

 

In ripping off all, well, there is

no more ball.

There is no more world which

Atlas can whirl upon his

broad shoulder strung tight with

strain.

 

The bands have no purpose.

Their life, when all burst, is

but salt on a poor woman’s

palm.

 

So together they prefer; even if

one doesn’t concur, by booting it

out, the others don’t doubt that

they will ever fall down again.

 

Power’s in numbers, I guess,

all but numbers. But repetitions of

petitions, doubles of

troubles, doppelgängers of

strangers.

Those numbers are all

just the same.

Who really wins

the game?

 

Is it those that

stay in, fearful to

begin? To depart, to

break hearts, to embark all

alone?

 

Or is it those that snap off,

too annoyed to gawk at the

same and the tame and the

lame game that remains?

Who find purpose past cloning,

past blending in and droning

“Power’s in numbers,” these numbers

all mumblers, these mumblers

all mumbling the same.

All bumbling the same,

towards boring-filled days of thinking together and

drinking together and

being together until they are all

one another; endlessly,

relentlessly the same.

 

The world is a rubber band,

many rubber bands, bound

tightly, bound “rightly” through

identical sighting of a

life lived a million times.