Jeffrey Skinner
POETRY
 

If You Didn't Make the Bed, What Did You Do Today?

 

Walked room to room, finding skeins of not-doing
everywhere.  So much of it, the possibility of action
had no room.  Not enough room in the rooms
for anything but the vast not-doing of each room.  So

sat, and even that added volume to furious absence.  
Stayed still long then and late, so the room like a jar
of riled up pond water could settle and clear.  
Then, badly had to pee.  This action made the house

expand uncomfortably, and forced the speaker out
the front door, accompanied by the sound of a popping
cork.  Went to the coffee shop.  After elbowing
aside wads of others padded by not-doing, found a table

with seatbelt.  Strapped in.  Spoke to a dude to relieve
some pressure, then was sucked back by the hose
of not-doing.  Gradually a coffee silvered not-doing
crystalized in the air above the sipping faces–lightning

branched dendrites, platinum fractal displays,  
which obviously aped the not-doing inside each brain
dozing atop its spinal stalk like a nodding orchid.
In such like manner did the day, my love, destroy me.
   

 


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