Life got
tired today.
Flumped back
in his couch.
(He’s a he in
April, hermaphrodite
in May, a she
until late summer.)
Life, to
Life, can be a bummer –
pumping up
and down and through
the slew of
procreating
and interning
proto-growths
till each is done
gestating
in its
claustrophobic
lair,
extruding
bone
and growing
hair
and root and
fin
and tentacle
so they can
suddenly be plentiful
and out and
everywhere.
Rarely can he
spare the time
for abstract
contemplation.
He’s got to
act
or all will
slip and sink.
But here’s
the fact.
He’d rather sit
and think.
.
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