the best i can do on a warm Saturday afternoon

 


in the kitchen
looking out the
window.

sitting,

smoking,

thinking,

I ask
myself:

do rivers
dream?

is the earth
jealous
of heaven?

and if there
arent answers
to somethings,
was a question
ever asked?

while the cat
sitting across
from me
stares,

his lightening
eyes filled with
ancient wisdom
of the Sphinx.

smoke from
my cigarette
rises up and
plays a hymn
to the air.

I scratch my
chin and
wonder how
i got here,

and where to
go next:

Paris in the
1920's to visit
Shakespeare
and Company

a Russian
gulag to
eat watery
borscht

the burning
hell of
Pompeii?

and i decide:

come,

go...

it makes no
difference,
really.

so i take another
long hit on my
cigarette,

look at the sun
gracing my
window,

and laugh a
small laugh
of the
bemused

as birds shit
on my
house.