THOUGH FEW
HAVE NAMED IT
(ennui)
Many have felt. Existence is like
that - the fly running to the open
honey. The ant, dead from hot water.
I notice so many, sitting, watching
the news. About something. About
something else. About something again.
Like old people, sitting in a park - thin
men with their farts, old women, in their
sacks of soiled cloth. It gets easier, I
think, to just wait for the end : time bends
and then time ends. I go to the mailbox,
to see that nothing is there. I call the girl
over, just to tell her so : 'You look a lot
like Maria Bartiromo. Did you know?
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