VIEW FROM A BED
Darting in from three different infinities unavoidable intersections merge to a point, fluorescent light and cobwebs collected in a corner, one of many.
I see all my posters depicting how life is in places I've never been. I know of them only through photos or drawings, perhaps word of mouth, or a less efficient method of sharing information.
There's junk on the floor.
In one place or other are all kinds of powders -- lemonade, iced tea, and baby, (the latter good only for concocting a kind of makeshift paste), a homage to instantness. A deodorant can makes false promises or a sarcastic remark, and all the books are closed.
My lists full of scribbles, the records in order, the fridge full of juices we stole from the cookout, the window preset at a comfortable margin; I think I've completed the menial missions that plague each and every life.
As I lie here pondering these vacant white lined sheets, the digital red patterns glow tantalizingly out of reach.
And if, of course, I could, I would get up.
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