it seems to you I do nothing
sitting, walking, reading, writing, thinking
and in a sense I agree
there are days when doing nothing
means I stay here-
it is a meditation,
incredible restraint, non-doing-
when the pressure to escape
is a fault line ready to slip
when each imagined new path
is met with screams of ‘impossible’
when memories of children and fathers
explain that I will always be irrelevant
when I have exhausted my grip
sleep is less adventurous than death...
and so, this evening,
when you ask what I did today,
I can extend my arms to you,
alive,
and smile,
and say, ‘nothing’
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