Unacceptable
Unacceptable
by Gerald Huml
3 A.M. I feel alone in this time zone.
For light a halogen lamp roasts the ceiling,
glow of the television screen paused
in mid-violence, scallop shell nightlight
illuminating the bottom stairs. It is now certain.
Once during the past nine hours
I stopped for a frozen dinner and trudged
upstairs to stare into the square tiles
and flush. From a window I unfocused
out across the dark lawn.
In the video game my outstretched hand
forks lightning across yards of distance,
immobilizing and blackening enemies to cinders.
With intonations and deep concentration
a shimmering barrier grows to defend me.
I can command the undead to rise and lumber,
to swing into foes their leaden arms or rusted axes,
or with my iron amulet and a prolonged white flash
teleport from one continent edge to another.
I can even slow time itself to a halt.
It is not enough. The long commute.
The mornings and afternoons inside
seated before a flat screen monitor
dense with number columns, variance formulas,
and highlighted yellow cells.
After six plodding years
life has less meaning. I had plans to be someone
like myself, only better.
So after work and on weekends, I live here,
sequestered in a pixel world I shape,
a world where I grow powerful and matter.
One more level and I am a god.