What Else?

Sitting
seems to be
all that’s left to do.

I’m waiting for coffee
and listening to the radio;
what else is there to do?

I’m worrying about
my partner leaving
for a month;

worrying on behalf of the cat;
worrying about my mother, my sister;
what else is there to do?

I can get up and check on
the coffee, get up and take
a shower, get up and push

my fists into my eyes, get up
and run ragged into the street,
get up and plead with God for

forgiveness
or better: a sort of fail-safe status.
What else is there to do?

I’m planning to be alone,
planning my options
to see people, planning

to dance in a quiet room
thirteen stories above this one,
planning a murder, a suicide,

a quiet death all by myself in my bed;
what else is there to do?
Instead I sit and sip coffee.

Well, this is good coffee. I’ll have to
get more soon. Have to be
ready, alert, scheming results;

thinking, always thinking of the future;
instead I just sit here.
What else is there to do?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T