Idling

It’s quarter to midnight for the cigarette I burn 

and pure dawn of a psychedelic, Sunday-like Tuesday 

unfolding on empty scaffolds  

around half-buildings downtown 

for which construction is suspended 

until life resumes tomorrow with the gut-filled, drunk, and happy souls 

returning to the mundaneness of their work. 

Work that doesn’t end, 

ever, 

but keeps on going and keeps time going on in one general direction. 

Forward. 

Like a shot from a cannon out at sea at nothing, and no one watching, and no one to hear, but only an energy propelling forward. 

Like a mother. Always forward. 

It goes, somehow

against the general current and waves,

against the ever dissipating entropic energy 

seemingly for some reason, 

for some purpose.

It’s happening and it’s being done.

I think of stray dogs insanely barking at the wheels of cars, keeping at it, on a Godly golden day like this one. 

A day to sail. 

But I sit and wait for the moon. 

I sin against time, idling, drowning in the loneliness of my knowing. 

It’s all a sea, a humdrum dream of hopes and fears undulating infinitely under galleys and skiffs rowing rudderless. 

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