The Big Loser by Max Ritvo

The Big Loser

The guardian angel sits in the tree

above the black lip of street

the man walks down.

He calls the man Cargo.

The angel sees a pinewood box in place of the man,

and the street he walks is a boat,

the hull like a coal crater.

Somewhere in the real world there is such a boat and box.

The angels call these overlays dreams,

and believe they crop up because angels

can’t sleep but want to — 

space falls apart when you have unlimited time.

  

•

The cargo is rattling in the boat.

Maybe it’s just the waves, maybe it’s rats.

What’s the difference? Either way: it’s the box.

The angel sends the man

a happy vision from his past — the time

he fed birthday cake

to his goldfish

after an unsuccessful party.

The angel thinks he’s applying lemon oil

to the creaky, wounded wood of the box.

He knows it’s palliative, but it’s beautiful.

•

The man reaches the end of the street. He’s a sick man

and he starts to ponder death

as he often does these days:

All of death is right here

— the gods, the dark, a moon.

Where was I expecting death

to take me if everywhere it is

is on earth?

At life’s close, you’re like the child whose parents

step out for a drive — 

everyone else out on a trip,

but the child remains in the familiar bed,

feeling old lumps like new

in the mattress — the lights off — 

not sleeping, for who can sleep

with the promise of a world beyond the door?

•

That night the child dreams

he’s inside the box.

It’s burning hot, the heat coming

from bugs and worms

raping and devouring one another.

He starts the hard work

of the imagination,

learning to minister to the new dream.

Perhaps all that’s needed is a little rain — 

for everyone to drink and have a bath.

Outside: a car humming,

somewhere, his mother’s singing.