Double Helix

An opaque turquoise bath.
I unclench each muscle
and open a battered copy of
“Death of a Salesman”.
It has been torn,
body half-ripped from spinal cord.
Along the tear dry rot has set in.
Each turned page
progresses the story
and crumbles the paper.
Willy Loman is fragile
behind the brave green cover
emblazoned with critical acclaim.
He falls in angular cream pieces
to the water.
I am laid open, bare,
and as I try to rescue
fragments of Willy they
dissolve into nothing.
The water seems more solid
than I, for I can see
the dreadful empty hollows
and hear the dust-laden wind
howling within.