Same Old Same Old

The cat sleeps on the bed.
Same old thing. I sleep on the couch.
Same old thing. Somewhere a moth
crashes and crushes itself against a light.

It is the same old thing — the same
casual terror, the same joy and relief
upon getting free of them both. Same.
There must be

a break from it, a diversion
into something like boredom, but not quite
boredom; more like sameness, more like
resumption of a status quo.

The left does the left and the right
does the right and both sides are correct,
both sides murder — I do give up,
a whole passionate surrender to sleep.

There must be
a better way but
I can’t find it;
I shrug into forgetting it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
T