Philosopher’s Stone

I imagine the planets

            signing our name.

I circle ideas with grease

            pencil and x others out.

My best friend warns of a smear campaign.

            I formally request a wooden spoon.

            I get drunk on cheap champagne.

Time collects its signatures. 

Soon, the distance runners

            will return.

The neo-groovy youth of Shady High

            will rediscover the Yardbirds.

I watch the Bunsen Burner’s flame

            dance and change color.

            This is little consolation

            for missing the solar flare.

There are ways of going about things.

            For instance, banging a gong.

            The song starts again.

I tie a piece of dental floss

            to a brown mouse

            with a broken tail.

            I swear the mouse to secrecy

            before I set it loose.

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Glen Armstrong (he/him) holds an MFA in English from the University of Massachusetts, Amherst and edits a poetry journal called Cruel Garters. His poems have appeared in Conduit, Poetry Northwest, and Another Chicago Magazine.