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Stillness of Home
When I can't tear tiny wrappers
I wonder at the size of my hands;
it doesn't boggle the mind, but
they're enough to do the fucking job.
And then I sit there a moment and
stare at the Bishop, laying on the desk,
dirty and drunken in the garden,
with a hole in the top of his head.
I take note of the daylight fading
and do what I can to locate a lamp
that can only obey the switch that it has,
trailing from its coiled plastic chord.
My knees brush against the desk and
cry out at the chill of all the fake wood.
I recoil for a moment, then tend to drift
towards the moment of discomfort again.
Most days I reflect on the things that I've seen;
from the sexiest girls to the most unexpected,
and all of the oddities the world tends to have.
In due time, I sit and seek a focus for my mind.
I rarely discover anything nor do I create
something that truly makes a single day complete.
Eventually I'm sure I can or will, but
I find I'm at a loss.
