there’s a minotaur in my labyrinth
a microscopic monster who roams
up and down, side to side, north to south
keeping me disoriented
one hand on the wall
one over my mouth
as i try to find my porcelain throne
i know. that makes no sense

as children love to do, i pushed things
up my nose, checking to see what fit
and what didn’t
i’m certain that there are bits of magnet
embedded there permanently
because left floating in a pool
i always point due north
but of course, that makes no sense

three dimensions are all i can handle
though some say, given enough time
i could adapt
they tell me i have an internal clock
innate ability to measure the minutes
the span of life, whether mine or a mayfly’s
and that the clock runs faster
the closer i come to being a centenarian
which surely makes no sense at all

beyond the basic five
proposed by aristotle, that wise old greek,
i have to add my favorites, namely
common sense, business sense
horse sense, innocence
and best of all, pure nonsense

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—j.lewis is an internationally published poet who finds creative associations between the strangest things. He occupies his spare time by kayaking, exploring and photographing the waterways near his home in California.

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