Déjà Vu Sur l’Herbe

by Jerry Ratch

While watching the ever-present crowds

passing by on my insides, I noticed,

by accident, a man smiling

who might have been me, not sure.


Maybe I'm eating soap

for the first time, because I am

either frothing or foaming

at the mouth.

And a smile like the Bhuddha,

sometimes, after a great belch.


And a big soap bubble too.

So I might be quite

happy, it's hard to tell.


The girl or woman leaning forward

on the beach blanket in the woods

is stripped to the waist,

one breast bulging out from

under her arm,

and looking out at us as we gaze

solemnly over our shoulder

at the recent past. And the mess

of history. And the future.