730 Monday

playing with the idea
that I still might be on vacation
or something like that
as if I am far away from all
the things that never make sense
anyway and here I sit wasting
the day with words that some might
read and others won’t even see
hidden behind words on pages
a prison of ink bars so strong
another beautiful sunset
and everything appears more
three-D than usual
night in the life of the hermit
writer out on the floor of the porch
at seven-thirty on a Monday...