as the drifts surround my home
in the distances of Indiana
someone in Russia will read my blog.
My reader sits
on the edge of his seat, caught
between my dull wordsand the trip to work.
His last golden sip
of tea's in the cup.
So he clicks one more link.
His imperfectly shaven face
frowns at the last cold gulp,
half-heartedly scans the screen's
glow for just something,
just one more word to kill the time
before he pulls hard on his boots
and sleeps his computer,
before the heavy coat and the heavier
slam of the door
of his chilling apartment,
of his apartment that grows
dustier and dustier
because no one else lives there.
Colder yet and deep within
his quiet CPU my blog's address,
unbookmarked, awaits the forgetting
when my reader returns
and begins his new search
for Faulkner or bath mats.
Already he will have forgotten
a whole day and how important
it all seemed to make his tea last,
to waste a little more time,
how important was the cup
in the sink, was the fear of going out,
was the burst of cold when he opened
the door and it smelled so fresh
and so empty.
Meanwhile in Indiana,
nothing at all has happened except
that worried in the night,
someone at last has put down his head,
surrounded by the snow someone
has put down his head
and fallen asleep.
Note: This is a new poem that seemed too appropriate for The Cage to publish elsewhere. Hello to my international readers.