The Concrete Monster

It does not appear all the time.

That would be easier.

There are long stretches
when the world looks correct—
trees along the bayou,
water moving as it should,
people passing without noticing me.

Then it is there.

Not arriving,
just present.

Something large
where nothing should be.

I look at it
and then away.

When I look back,
it is gone.

No one else has seen it.

This is important to them.

They ask what I’m looking at.
I say nothing.

It seems better
to agree with the visible world.

Once, riding along the bayou,
it stood near the water,
out of scale with everything.

Another time
I was driving at night,
the top down,
my wife beside me.

We had had a good day.

She was talking about something small,
something finished.

And there it was again,
at the side of the road,
waiting without purpose.

I began to cry.

She asked why.

I told her.

She said she didn’t see anything.

Of course she didn’t.

It is not that kind of object.

In the mirror
it receded,
becoming smaller
without becoming less.

At home
I turned up the music,
as though volume
could occupy the space.

Later, in bed,
I closed my eyes
with the usual precaution—

not to keep it out,
but to delay
where it might stand next.

It has no movement
I can describe.

No intention.

Only this persistence.

It remains
even when it is not there.

And for now
it belongs only to me.