Thinking

Thinking

*

He looks up from his work, dropping his pen

on the table.  He drinks ice-cold water from a cup.

His eyes move down to his chest; a thought! He unbuttons

his shirt.  It’s already hot.  Beads of sweat are like coins

on the skin, shining in the morning sun.  They snake

down the surface, cooling him.  Maybe

*

he will leave his house today.  Outside, the bees

are already active, full of life.  The thought of it snakes

through his mind; he’d rather stay in his pen.

But he keeps thinking.  Again, he raises the cup

and feels the refreshing coldness.  It buttons

his mind for a moment, and his thoughts drop like coins

*

on the tiled kitchen floor.  The coins

gaze back, their expressions as empty as his cup;

as blank as that sheet of paper.  The pen

thrives on actions, not thinking.  Be

patient!  Those thoughts will become words, snake-like

lines.  It’s still hot.  His mind is a misplaced button

*

for a shirt, simply lost.  Buttons

seem to have a habit of that.  The buzzing bees

mock him with their productivity, yet the pen

will not create.  The faucet is tempting, like a snake

he once read about.  His mind is wandering again; the coins

lay there on the floor.  He pays them no mind.  The cup

*

is empty still.  O! How he longs for it to be full again, the cup

on the table, and the one in his head.  Being

thirsty is quite an ordeal.  He imagines a coin-filled

fountain, sparkling with water and wishes.  The pen

is waiting.  He remembers the heat, but he buttons

his shirt regardless.  Thoughts snake

*

through his mind, and the sweat no longer snakes

across his skin.  He is thinking.  Once again, the cup

is full.  He is at the fountain, casting his coins

away.  The floor is bare, as it should be.

Nothing is empty, order is restored.  Buttons

are accounted for.  He reaches for the pen.

*

*

B. Moretti

http://promisingpoetsparkinglot.blogspot.com/