reconstructions          sampled from The Finest Poetry for the Blackest Day, a Christopher Robin zine                                                                                                            by Joseph Verrilli                                               i reconstruct a young man's angst in a world grown old with cold brilliance. it extends its arm for its daily shot of electric vanity. i reconstruct the potential mindset of the young female warrior who smiled without making eye contact. the gritty game board where we share an uneasy alliance elicits no promises no elusive answers to silent questions. the kind of post-apocalyptic existence where paranoia bubbles in veins too impatient to delve into reasons. emotions. i reconstruct the assumption that i can live and breathe in such a world. as i get older i feel more and more like someone exiled to the vagaries of youth. she smiled. kept walking, implied that new rules called the tune, the way her stomach melted into the slight curve of her hips and theighs so matter-of-factly. i reconstruct my redundant isolation.