By Thomas Page
Everything is marketed with some number accented
With the marks and symbols of something-something
To make it seem taller than the possibilities imagined.
People ask me my height which I’m always not so sure of
And make up some number that seems right–
Normally 6 foot 3 inches–
Whenever I meander around somewhere
And they see that my head is closer to the halogen line than theirs
Topping my frame is office-sick light in a secular halo.
I’m often everso slightly too big for things
Like the bus or the airplane or the back of the corolla
And my knees in some circus contortions try to fit
A mountain into a molehill.
My knees often hurt.
But there’s always something bigger that has its own reservations
Like the perfect height of Everest being changed to seem more natural.