to those who pass by my door:

the cobblestone is dry
& the leaves of two seasons
have passed & pressed between it's cracks.

the blinds are raised & curtains drawn
as i was taught to welcome things in.
the men & women who walk in front of my place
hobble & stumble as their wooden canes
skip & scrape on the street.
i would be forced to join them
but i don't leave the cover of this place.
i see silhouettes of others approaching,
upright & at smooth canter & can't help but wonder
if they'll approach my door.
some do.
few, but some.
usually selling vacuums or some other
useless, bull shit cleaning element.
i sit in an over-sized, leather chair
& drink wine from a plastic cup.
sometimes i read books on bird watching, cooking,
or any other hobby that would take too much
time & dedication to actually take full involvement in.
i sleep late & fall asleep late.
i taste very little these days.
i throw darts at a giant map on my wall,
much like someone eager to travel, but not
sure where to go, would choose a destination.
but god knows i'm not going anywhere.
instead, i write down a fact about that certain location.
London is foggy.
Boston's favorite color is green.
Sir-Lanka has a bug problem.
the obvious things.
i like to snap my fingers...a lot.
want to figure out someday how fast your
finger actually has to be traveling
to make that sound on your skin from such
a short distance.
the phone is ringing.
i hate answering the phone,
but i think i hate knowing that someone is looking
for me & i don't know who it is, more.
so i have to answer it.