The Old Man In My Ceiling

The Old Man In My Ceiling

Yesterday i laid down on my couch as the music was loud
I made sure

my eyes were open

and on my back the ceiling was just there

my eyes were open

they began to dissect the ceiling, scalpels are more deadly I presumed

and much more trouble

looking along line after line at one particular place

almost staring
a
a frozen man appeared

as if for one thousand years the ice age had stilled him

He couldn’t move
he appeared to have been frozen very fast
his position spoke to me
emotion

Never have I seen such a huge fluffy top hat
and yet the plaster was white I saw black

His frame and eyes Black with white clothes
A mathematical curve for a mouth

he did not speak to me

The cloak was barely visible and think I saw a cane

erupting from a lined right hand
whose arm gave support with shade of weak carpenters strokes

years ago

the largest and most pointed of noses seemed
to extend forever into the creamy oblivion

as he stared and said nothing

I grabbed my pen and began fanatically copying the man

every line I wanted to be exactly in proportion
flat on my back in order that I might take my eyes off him as little as possible

I drew toward the perfect replica

after I had finished I looked down at my product

and then at the old man for approval

he did not speak to me of course I did not expect him to

I looked down at the copy again seeing nothing

but me