I don’t know why
I never predicted
most of life
would be lived
between events;
in fact,
events being
few and far
between.
If I had known,
I would’ve studied
life more, those
in-between times
when nothing really happens,
like housework,
cooking,
walking around,
moving things from one place
to another,
like from the mantel
to the piano.
Or myself
from the chair
to the couch
to the sink.
I would’ve made it
an art
to do those nothing things,
worn something special,
paid close attention
to the way my wrist moved,
or the shade of gray
I chose for socks
to glide across the floor
like I was really alive.
I wouldn’t have wasted
so much time
resenting those
seemingly empty times,
dreading them in fact,
thinking I was better
than they required me
to be. I would’ve
been happy, like
a girl
or a sock-puppet.

 

 

 

Now try: More Everything/Having