Today's poem is by Brian Satrom

The Physics of It
       

A room that smells of jasmine,
or of burnt toast, or of dust
and cats, or maybe it's just a chair
in a backyard—any space

that you've assumed as a given,
know you could return to,
whether or not you have,
until you can't. Also anything

getting dismantled or torn down,
a home, schoolyard, or even
an old factory with its outer walls
knocked out, ductwork

in piles, a glimpse driving by
of a breakroom on the second floor
half gone as if a cutaway
illustration, chairs still arranged

at a table. I heard recently on TV
a scientist use the term sublimation,
which I haven't thought about since
high-school physics. The spirit

found outside its housing as a poet
once put it. As if there's a formula
or law that describes our inability
to stay once we've arrived.

                Note: The quoted phrase is from "The Surviving" by Christopher Gilbert.

Copyright © 2025 Brian Satrom All rights reserved
from The Shore
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission