A Day in Life
Slats of light from the window blinds on
the living room floor and the hum of the
refrigerator in the kitchen. A car in the street
outside and the clunk of a sewer cap under
its wheel as it passes.
And the refrigerator hums, and the sunlight shines
in the window and on the floor, and there is
something definite occurring.
There is a silence, or something like it.
So many unnoticed occurrences,
so many absences of nothing,
to make one stop and wonder
what nothing might actually consist of,
or whether what is could not be anything at all.
A dull creak off to the upper right in the ceiling as
the house settles.
And there is that silence again,
the silence of a world spinning on its axis awash in life,
out there.
I heard this and I felt this before when I was young,
very young.
It was boredom then.
Home perhaps with an exaggerated illness: quiet noon,
sun in the window, cars in the street, and no one home,
attention to nothing in particular.
The kind of easy contentment yogis spend their life perfecting,
that the very young simply possess, uncorrupted by…
anything at all.
Early spring probably, with wet spongy ground outside, and
there are slight buds on the maple that I can see outside from
my corpse pose on the living room couch.
It was boredom then.
Yes,
back then…
back then
it was boredom.
