Nothing is happening,
thank God.  Stasis
rules for once.  That lawnmower
has finally stopped chucking rocks
and now it’s all
hands thrown up and
“so what?” outside. 
Maybe God got hurt
and the Zeitgeist is holding its breath
until the outcome is known.  
It works for me; truthfully, I don’t even care.
Suffice it to say
if we’ve all become set in acrylic
and this is how it’s going to be
from now on, I’m ready
to suspend indefinitely
my need to be
entertained, excited
and creative.  I’ll sit
with this bemused face
till time ends
if that’s what’s required 
in the new world,
if you can call this still-life
a new world, or a world at all —

ah, hell,
the air conditioner 
just kicked on, and
the buzz seems to have
started things up again.
I was so happy there for a moment
and now, I suppose
I’ll have to finish this poem
and maybe do dishes
or pay a bill if that’s
really necessary. 

I am
packaging.  I was
all the wrapping
my Inside needed,
and now that it’s gone,
I’m trash.  

If you pick me
up I’ll mutely honor you
for putting me in 
a proper receptacle — either
a recycling bin or
a garbage can.
Your decision
will be
the right one; no matter
which one you pick
I’ll lie inside it 
shiny and empty
until the time comes
for me to move on,
perhaps to recycling
and flame and reshaping,
perhaps to burial 
in dark, polluted earth.

Either way, you’ll have made
the right choice  —
for I was made 
only to contain
and not to have my own path.

I live, and have lived always
in the service
of another,
and see no reason
to stop now.