Monday, February 6, 2017

UNFINISHED SYMPHONY

Before everything
else this morning—
here I am, slavishly
hardboiling

and rinsing
not quite
a dozen
eggs in my kitchen,

while an
old dachshund-
beagle lies
snoozing,

breathing
in and out
of sync
with the faint lilt

of some
oniony wallpaper
music in the
adjoining room;

each of her persistent,
shallow, and
frivolous
snores underscoring

the wayward
and whimsical
mellifluousness
of my genius,

massaging it,
fudging the gap
between furious
action

and stock-
stillness—from hands
and slick shells
wringing wet,

to just a few
cold beads of water lingering,
stranded on
course, beige surfaces—

until
eventually,
I come
to realize

none of us
ever really
does anything
ahead of time.

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