The Floor

The forceful blandness of what is
Feels more present quiet mornings
When awareness returns from sleep

To, for instance, a room without
Any other persons in it,
No people just beyond the walls.

Everything in the room is there
And heavy with being just there,
Unalive, with nothing to say

But full of that mere existence,
Not as background to awareness
But massive, up front, in your face.

It fades. You get on with the day.
Human concerns take center stage.
Solid existence drops away,

But it waits. There isn’t a thing
For existence to be but be
The floor still there after the play.