I woke up to the idea that you are a barren wheelbarrow,
Spinning and holding nothing for me.
I sat and looked out my window at the rain.
I pondered what life is like for me at this my temporal existence.
A squirrel laid itself out on my sill.
As though it was a nice summer day
And it was bathing in the sun, sprawled out on a lawn chair.
Wondering why it is that I can’t relax,
Asking myself why it is that timidity invades my body like a tumor
Why is it that we as human beings
Get wrapped up like bows in the “Why Me?” question that invades ones identity.
As I looked on in wanting.
To be that squirrel nestled in, soft fur on my sill.
So I sit.
Looking out on the rain
Tears frozen on my face like mosquitoes in the light of a lantern.
The squirrel takes it’s leave
I watch it’s descent
As it moves along the branch of the maple tree outside my proclaimed window.
It can jump from stem, to leaf
Then down to the root.
Whereas I can never seem to fall into the substance of pending conditions.
I envy the squirrell
Who knows how much of the world it has seen?
Whether it’s been to Paris or Egypt,
Or perhaps the Virgin Islands or Israel.
While I have gone as far as the casinos of Conneticut and Jersey.
Although I can’t stand gambling and losing money to a machine
That never spits for me.