Tuesday Morning In An Apartment Poem by Chris G. Vaillancourt

Isolation, those retreating seconds
      before vacancy settles in.
Sedentary drifting, perception
      in a thousand and one spaces.
I live here. That is something
      to celebrate, I suppose.
For a man must be somewhere
      and this is the situation
        which I am occupying.
An electric fan is rotating
      itself around the room of
      hollowness that sharply defines
      the brick walls of motivation.
Aspects of silhouettes tantalize
the intellect with opened drawers
      stuffed with the debris of
        other generations.
I'm confidant in
      almost nothing
       and so I
       grit my teeth
      in lines of
      indifference.
Seek only truth.
That's the line of thinking
I've been taught to employ.
      But which truth?
Which particular obscurity
is to be the one followed?
      Best to not decide.
      Best to stay undetermined.
      Let the precipitation drip
      down into the barrel.