Match-Box December MAG

By Unknown, Unknown, Unknown

   he carries his rug everywhere with him.

his tackle box somewhere,

anywhere.

the tickle of the heating grate.



he carries the world with him.

a rug filled with a castle

a moat

a society.

he can roll out his rug and join them.



he can crouch on the hospital floors

sipping Coca Cola from a styrofoam cup

be somewhere else.



the sound of the swords clanking

wakes him. he's standing in the

middle of the rug. only he's small

and tiny and shrunken. he's been

whizzed around by knights.

jeering around and laughing, crying, pretty much

yucking it up. living. he's a tiny page,

with a skater shackle, standing by and waiting

waiting for someone to drop a clue on him.



it's december.

please remember this.

don't leave that old man alone.

don't leave that old man in the wheelchair alone.

he's your grandpa.

he's your grandpa and while you were time traveling

with your magic rug

he,

he was dying.





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