In a room,
I am reading,
glancing out of the window,
or I am looking at what I am writing.
Then I stop.
Discouraged, distracted, I am exhausted,
lie down, sit up, touch my toes,
swing my arms, make a phone call,
ignore a call, hear a voice, see a message,
answer it, don’t, there is plenty of time,
too much time.
Only time.

In a room,
I am restive, restless, and bore myself.
I look at my books,
shelves overwhelmed,
actually I watch them,
I am their guardian.
Books live for me to read,
books are alive when they are read,
but mostly I fail them,
and they rebuke me.
I look for distractions.
I look at my cat,
my cat is not worried,
and I am I.

And in my sleep, I am wide awake.
My dreams are vivid, my dreams are many.
I live and die a thousand lives, each as real as any.