The World Leans Forward

Through movement, upsets, uncertainty...the world keeps moving, tilting, and leaning forward.

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The world at the bend,

I spill my gravy on the lady at my table.

She doesn't budge-- just stares

At her fork as if it's GPS.

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They say Table Eight is hexed.

Spoons disappear, friends betray.

I once caught a girl

Braiding her doll's hair, mumbling.

"Come and eat now," Her mother cried.

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My backpack holds unseen things-

Staples, pens, a crumpled note,

On which I wrote, "I'm coming."

But I haven't yet. The table tilts.

The coffee spills.

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The lady asks, "Do you remember

What you were before time told you to go?"

I stare. I was just a cashier.

Then, coffee grounds spill from a jug--

And arrange themselves into constellations.

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I clock out. The door swings backward.

My shoes step on a road that suddenly appeared.

And Table Eight remains--

Still waiting for its food.

Still asking questions about the stars.

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As it bends, tilts, about to break-

The world will lean forward.

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Original tilting poem by Michelle Liew. AI tags are coincidental.