weighing the world

Poem #110 from a series of poems drawn from the imagination and collected as: a Bachelard reverie.

Back to Bachelard and me – Introduction

the old cast-iron scales
were located
standing against an outside wall
at the entrance
to the museum

he recalled
from his childhood
stepping on the platform
with its too-fluid wobble
that always troubled
a small boy
until he was certain
of his balance

a copper penny
into the slot
and the long slender pointer
in its glassed surrounds
would swing to the left
until it accurately indicated
in stones and pounds and ounces
the measure
of its young supplicant

as a boy
he had felt himself
by the solemnity
the gravity
of weighing himself
on the big

it is the man
who stands before the device
the weighing machine

still ornate
with its wrought iron
in silver paint

tall and rectangular
with a square face
alike to a formidable and wise
old grandfather clock

a bronzed-gold dollar
where once
it was just a penny
the price of wisdom
is always proportionate

he has wracked his brain
to think of a way
to gain
to re-gain
a measure of certainty
in his troubled times

all around him

he has made an effort
to accumulate and collect
all of his concerns
within a single package

a round ball
of package

predominantly blue

placing it on the platform
with its disconcerting wobble
he drew a breath

slid a shiny dollar
into the slot
and watched
as the arrow moved
to give the correct

© Frank Prem 2017

Bachelard and me Poem #111: to the end

5 thoughts on “weighing the world

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