it’s hard for me
to sit cross-legged.
i sit cross-legged
on a hard wooden floor.
my legs quiver,
taught in their bend.
the floor,
wooden,
softened by a
small cushion
made of buckwheat.
earlier, i had
worried, “i have
nothing more
to say”.
a jackhammer
prods me
at my back.
it may as well be
a woodpecker.
i place a glass
of water at my
wooden side,
floored, and
make mental note
of its presence.
soon after,
i stand, crossing
the entirety of my space
in one step.
one step which
kicks the already-forgotten
glass. it splashes
some of its contents,
though it does not
topple.
the wood floor,
it has been
soaked in oil
in its now-silent past,
and this makes
for a beading.
not so much
spilled, this water,
as transferred.
from one vessel
to another.
a jackhammer prods
at me. it may
as well be
a woodpecker.
i sit with difficulty,
cross-legged,
on a hard wooden floor,
a buckwheat cushion
offering no objections
in its support.
a book, nearly
finished, lies open
on the floor.
a glass, still
holding a few
inches of water,
also,
on the floor.
i ask of myself,
“do not forget it”.
briefly, i feel
peace.
zakschafer.com 