I know I’m no Rodin
Not much of a thinker
But these days most mornings
I find myself idling
With nothing in particular
Not as if I’m blue, in a funk
That idle dullness is different, a gritty quicksand
Pulling you deep into murky depths
Crashing headlong into a wall.
None of that!
But I sit around, looking at the greens
And the sky
And sunlight on the wall
And if its night, that rich red that the sky can take
The patterns of light in the neighbor’s window
And nothing much in particular
So I watch.
And then I move. Until the next time.
Of course meals get cooked
Taxes get paid
The cheque book’s balanced and
I log into work and log out
But no, these days I’m not shooting for the moon
No Don Quixote at hypothetical windmills
No grand stories of theft or crime impale polite readers on the writing list
Nor have erudite editors been bombarded by third world tales they have no interest in.
I’m taking it inch by inch
The world can wait