Turning invisible will come as a blow. (if you turn your glasses upside down you can see the other side) Don’t let the waitress know or you won’t get your eggs Benedict! First turn your fingers to fist, (because they’ll surely know) tuck your feet under the table, hide those mustard-gas shoes, while your skin sinks inside itself. It folds and folds and folds until the table next to you (discussing how a 747 can’t drop into the sea) sees you squirming, undressing her words like crunching Velcro. Your hand passes through your macchiato! your fingertips – like glass – gleam hollow. (gone to the bottom of the Atlantic!) Next your: 1) sleeves will depress 2) tongue will fade 3) wallet will bulge under your empty suit So when the waitress comes, she’ll think you’ve done a birthday-runner, so pack light, the Atlantic is thirty-seven stories deep.
Adam Formosa is a third-year creative writing student at the University of Wollongong. He was recently published in Best Australian Poetry.
© Adam Formosa
Overland 203-winter 2011, p. 73
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