he walks ahead of me
on the wooden dock
and i wonder,
somewhat sheepishly,
why he is still
alive.
he limps and rolls,
his emphatic girth
insignificant,
near-nonexistent,
next to the great glob
of ocean.
he holds views
i disagree with,
says things
i find hateful
and repugnant.
he continues walking
straight down the dock
and i turn,
make my way
up the steel ramp
to the parking lot.
the cities and towns
all built to convenience
these cars and trucks
we no longer can live
without.
as i walk into the tiny
town a man rides by me
on a bicycle.
one bicycle per
fifty vehicles,
despite the stunning mildness
of the Spring day.
his bike seat is
too high and i’d like to
stop him,
tell him,
say to him,
“your bike seat is
too high.
you’ll likely be
more comfortable
if you lower it”.
but i
do not. i
do not.
tourists roam around with cameras and hats.
i go to the library,
pick up a book,
walk back
to the dock.
it can be difficult
to feel like you
exist. difficult,
sometimes,
to even want it,
this existence.
i put music on
and pick up
the book i’ve yet to
finish.
not wanting to
start the next,
until i’m done
with this one.
i remind myself
of this,
remind myself
that i do not want
to start the next,
until i’ve finished
with this.
zakschafer.com 