To Thirst for a Sock

Dawn breaks and another cup of coffee is served

until all you know it might be over today.

But it feels like a century has gone by and there’s

nothing new to newness, so you look at the spines

of all your whispering books, and nothing holds you.

Nothing presses, nothing is dug out as dynamic.

But if you open one, maybe god marks the disturbance,

the free will to fall again.

.

But if you pull one off the shelf, maybe the weight of it

was all you needed.

You wrote down somewhere everything you’re grateful for,

but the locations linger in space, and the leaves keep falling

off the cottonwood trees.

And all you do is have dreams in which you are defecating in

public places over and over again.

.

Then, you finally get to the point of questions, such as,

why do cats have such short lives? And their many interests

give way to a new plan in which a sock can amuse for hours.

But for us, an opaque, puckish film covers our stomachs and

hearts, waiting for the sonar to announce deliverance again.

.

But the book is still too heavy, and the toilet is taken for granted

until all we know we’re right in front of belying mirrors again.

Such lifting and putting down around an ant hill only serves

as an ephemeral purpose — then all is lost again.

.

Do you have any questions to ask Her? Have you tried to get

to know an elephant? Is there just too much in this damned

world? Or not enough?

*A/N: Thanks to Mike Singleton for inspiring me this morning.