Thursday Night

And there they are, on some late-night cable channel: human bodies barely the size of a fist, with fists barely the size of finger-nails - but punching this way and that, then pulling themselves upward into the womb, scratching for grip against the walls; feet kicking like fists, head screaming and eyes blinking in disbelief - as though a fist was flying right at their face - and then a final last leap of life - and then it's done; the abortionist vacuums the foetus through the vagina, and a would-be mother has made some money, selling the motion-picture scans to TV.

And there I am - I, fist, whom might never have existed, never been connected to arms and eyes and ears, coated in a layer of skin like this, so comfy now, flicking over channels, holding back a yawn. I'm attached to a man wasting time, wondering who or what else he might have been doing tonight, perhaps in an alternate life, and what's on TV next, and when is the right time to go to sleep.