saturday morning buffoon

the sun rose
the engine roared
the cat yowled
i woke

the bird sang
the neighbor showered
the silence settled
i lay

the plane circled
the squirrel scampered
the wind blew
i listened

the couple fought
the police came
the lights flashed
i wrote

across the page it appeared the world was the same even as nothing felt as if it really existed; it all appeared locked in a rigorous half-step removed from my own revolutions in reality; somewhere out there she was the center of someone else’s dream while i found myself incapable of dream in the thirty minute echos of sleep that tease the edge of thought

the cat ate the bird before being hit by the speeding police car on the way to a domestic disturbance, the plane engine sucked in the song bird to spit a brief puff of feathered smoke before heading on to a better place far away from wherever here is, whatever now has become, from the incessant writings of the lone watcher with eyes squinted from the sun and a sullen pain that was the only thing willing to embrace him

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