Plastic Zero Poem by Chris G. Vaillancourt

Near the end of the night,
before the man pops himself into bed.
Thinking back over the
day, the multi-faceted adventure
he felt he mis-represented. In harsh
glare he felt the yawning chasm
of everlasting underscores.
Cascading violets in trashed
mementos of other golden
shades of tonic water. Jumping
to a conclusion and therefore
risking a solution he
swept his jewellery into a
box. Close the lid and think on
the yellow grass not growing
in the field next to his heart.
Fat or thin, either way, he
mooned the storm as it gathered
in the rocks behind his vision.
Shades of disdain for the
underwater revival held every
year in the factory. Plastic
zeros equalling the sum of
all creation. But wait.
There is a new confusion!
Every wheel rolling is
strolling along without
a sense of being right or wrong.
He drank his milk, now there's
a good boy!