When You’re Sitting Alone

When you’re sitting alone like a poor little elf

it seems everything falls off the shelf of yourself.

But falls isn’t the verb. What you’ll have viewed

by the end of it will have arrived in a curlicued

rush: disguised as elaborate ribbons and spatters

of colorful paint-drops, they really are matters

of dry circumspect little naggings of thought

that seek form in this way to allay any fraught

misconception you’ll sometimes have had

that there’s nothing of import inside you: a sad

probing finger that often will poke at the bruise

in your heart – that you’re feet without shoes,

incomplete, like the news you’ve been promised

but never receive. Mental weather’s admonished

you often before that you’ve got something going.

But what? All this folderol flowing and showing

itself all the time! To what end? You’ll sit alone

for a small while more. Wait for your iPhone

to ring-aling-ding. That would be reason for cheer.

But wait, there’s no wait. Everything’s already here.

Act Three - Guy Kettelhack - Poetry & Ephemera