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Inventory of a Thursday
Inventory of a Thursday
The kettle, before it sings, makes a sound like someone thinking, a low gathering, almost a word.
Outside, the neighbor's boy is teaching himself to whistle, and failing, and failing better.
There is a crack in the bathroom tile shaped like the coast of somewhere I have never been and won't go.
The cat has found the one square of sun the whole apartment owns this hour and is spending it like a fortune.
I did not do the important thing today. I did the dishes. I called my brother. I watched a pigeon walk with great purpose
toward nothing in particular, and I thought: there it is, the whole philosophy.
By evening the light goes amber, then thin, then gone, the way a held note leaves a room,
and the kettle starts again, gathering itself, about to say something.
A detailed list of items for Thursday
The kettle, before it makes noise, creates a sound similar to someone pondering, a soft noise, nearly a word.
Outside, the boy next door is learning to whistle by himself, and not succeeding, but improving.
There is a line in the bathroom tile that looks like the shape of a coastline I have never visited and won't.
The cat has discovered the one patch of sunlight the entire apartment enjoys at this moment and is using it as if it were valuable.
I did not accomplish the significant task today. I washed the dishes. I called my sibling. I observed a pigeon walking with determination
toward nothing specific, and I realized: there it is, the entire idea of life.
By evening the light turns yellowish-brown, then fades, then disappears, like a sustained sound leaving a space,
and the kettle begins again, coming together, ready to express something.