Wednesday, January 30, 2013

The Hermit of Hampton Inn

I'm going to have to do something soon.
I'm an agent. I have to at least pretend
To decide.
                         I can hear the snowplow
Grunting in the half-white, half-slush
Parking lots that surround me.
I'm hiding.
                         Even in this small, warm
Space I could be doing something more.
There are chores that don't require
Navigation through the constant calm
Of the sweetly descending, ruthless
                 Bills and envelopes on the table,
Terrible choices considering careers,
My own and others, more immediate
Notes and assignments in the satchel
Dumped beside me on the common couch.
Whose rumps have been on this couch?
I wonder, and when will it wear out
And be replaced by another standard
Couch for other rumps, and be sold cheap
Used and passed down over and over
Like the hideous floral sofa that somehow
Ended up as my daybed for a year
Back when I was already flunking adulthood
In college?
                            When will it all go to the dump?
Time, which I sometimes doubt exists,
Goes by in the whiteness blanking
Out the outside world vanishing under
My favorite, fearsome veil, while I
Waste all the ever-falling nothing
On musings as minor and futile
As this.

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