The problem with boredom: the burden of guilt.
How can you know how long you’ve got,
whether to react with gratitude or outrage
when you feel yourself falling apart more
fully than ever before, and the earth appears
to crumble before your uncertain eyes?
What do you do with the weather-
beaten map of fading memories
and fuzzy plans of random ways
to pass the time that remains,
as well abandoned as fulfilled?
How do you respond when someone
asks: “What are you doing here?”
(Not that they ever do, but with their
eyes: they are too cold to blurt
such a burning question out loud.)
All you can do is retreat to a place
beyond those stabbing lances,
deeper than defeat, solid as the grave,
a spot someone else can stand on
unlike hollow success
or victories as insecure
and frangible as life itself,
between two pounding seas.