Monday, June 13, 2022

SIX DAYS OUT OF SEVEN

Six days out of seven,
I don't really talk 
to anyone;

I haunt halls, ascend 
stairwells, tread 
sidewalks, cross lawns—

and, six days 
out of seven, all of this 
feels fine,

because all of these 
silent spaces 
and I, 

we get along 
as famously as Adam 
back in Eden. 

Then again, 
if I were him, 
humanity 

wouldn't have gotten 
too far off 
the ground, 

since, six days out 
of seven, if you'd asked me, 
I'd have balked 

at the prospect 
of renouncing just one 
ounce of silent paradise;

it's bad odds 
to even run the risk 
of gambling perfection—

let alone the picture-
perfect symmetry 
of one's rib cage

just for the sake, 
on that stray 
seventh day, 

of a little
conversation.