By Sy Roth
Woke this morning to a sodden sky
Stretched to the limit of my arms
And could hear the crack of my back and the crick in my neck
To bespeak an existence.
I think.
Meandered to the bathroom
To make as much noise as I could,
A steady stream with no relief—
So she could hear me.
I think.
It's a cereal morning
Table decorated with puzzles to solve
To wake the neurons, slip the synapses into gear
Nourish the body with vitamins to ward off the bleak river-carrier.
Ready.
I think.
Until an imp of perverse intent
Crept in beside me and painted pictures of the interminable
Sameness
For yet another cycle.
Happy to be alive.
I think.
Until an inkling rankles me at the edges
And I wonder about the purpose.
What is purpose?
Ultimately to feed the soil?
Procreate, a generative reality in a degenerative world,
Plant a seed in a secret soil
To test the limits of purpose when there is no reason
Beyond existence to nurture the unknowable.
I think.
For there may be no purpose--
Carbon dioxide generator
For the trees
And ultimately for the worms
Or Emily's fly buzzing above our bier.
I think--
And cogito no longer in the long run.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem