There’s a Life to the Bag on the Counter, But It’s Different from My Own

make it easy on yourself, you think
eyes drooping half-shut
with the eight light bulbs of
the kitchen ceiling fuzzy in the corner of
your right eye.
make it easy this morning
you think: don’t read
or write, just sit here, just sit.
so you do that and
notice your body breathing
softly slowly breathing
as all around you, nothing else
does that, not the flashlight
on the counter
not the sliding glass door, not
the backpack in one corner
or the backpack in
the other corner and outside are other
people sleeping dreaming hustling
breathing, and
a thousand other things not doing that.
and outside a chill breeze shuffles
leaves and clouds and
hair, but
you’re not concerned about that, not yet, not
now. you check your mug for
one last sip
of coffee, but it’s already gone, so you
lean back, rest
your head in your right hand, and
don’t worry about a thing.

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