In morning, he is divided and pried from the dream Confronted by the next plaster gray View-Master day. He lingers on his traditional half of the bed, teetering Then ventures across the deafening, empty apartment Where the dust accumulates like hourglass sand Blanketing, bit by bit, over sedimentary plans And archeological troves of screaming bones In a vast, derelict desert of vestigial space Towards a wardrobe of aborted echoes. There he peruses his potential noms du jour The coats of people he would have been Knowing most of them no longer fit. He settles on his most generic pronoun.
He performs his penance to the Tao: He is each domino just as it tips He is becalmed He is amid still waters He is a ship without wind He is a captain without a ship He is a bouy on the waves He is one last minute Treading water He is another last minute He is the dragging current He is the inflection of breath He is the mooring of the moment He is the stones in the coat pocket He is the coveted numbness of now
In evening, he recoagulates and retires Resigned to eat the tail that eats itself Consummating one more centrifugal lap. He remembers Sisyphus must be happy. He watches through his dizzy window A caterpillar spewing up a second womb. It will be the last monarch butterfly But he avoids the finality of the situation, And in his mind, any ensuing hurricanes. He buries himself in stale anticipation Beneath slowly overflowing drawers And trash bags piling up in hallways Where he stores expiring fortune cookies Whose pearly secrets he leaves uncracked For want of a friendly sweet tooth To bite the bullet for him Because he can't today.
A breakup, a pandemic quarantine, and zen philosophy went into this. Exploring the discomforts of the past, present, and future.