I Know What It’s Called

It’s 12:15 and I’ve only seen four seagulls.

Surely this nice little Buddhist guy can find peace within a simple reality.  Surely he smiles as infinity wraps around.

No!  Where are the gulls?  They can’t leave me.  Don’t they see my love?  Fly over Ghent please.

What if it all leaves? 

All the people I love turn their backs to me and walk away.  Sunsets are forever hidden by black clouds.  The streets are empty of children at play.

People speak to me but all I hear is silence.  My hip aches 24/7 and I can no longer climb the stairs at Oudburg 40.  There is no day and no night … just some middling greyness.

Birds no longer fly.  Pesto pasta can’t find my mouth.  The mirror shows nothing in its window.

Everything goes away


I know what this is called …


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