JONATHAN GREENHAUSE

REGGIE ORDERED A PACKAGE OF MINIATURE PEOPLE,

then proclaimed himself king. His tiny subjects
lauded his generosity,

swam in the Olympic-sized pool
of his bathroom sink, threw raucous orgies beneath the sheets

of his cocktail napkins, endured the Arctic-cold
of his air-con’s open grates,

while his apartment’s lights
were a slew of separate suns. When Reggie’s people slept,

they delicately snored but never dreamt small,
his four walls now their world

just as they’d become his.
No one ever visited him, & he was barely ever missed.

In time, he himself felt miniature but never ventured outside:
He’d heard tales of giants

& was wary of their cruelty,
aware from firsthand experience  how easy it was

to be crushed by an irate pinkie, his own gods lurking outside,
setting up their miniature scenery:

Reggie wasn’t certain
to whom he belonged but sensed he couldn’t move freely,

his earliest memory the opening of cardboard flaps
& the feel of gargantuan hands

from someone resembling himself,
a larger giant who, herself, was simply a toy to a larger self.