A moment comes when you wander to a window
overlooking a fairly busy intersection
and you see simultaneously that
things keep going on and that they are
not significant. Or at least
not palpably significant; yet
they keep going:
like the guy crossing the intersection now
on a motorcycle—an individual with his own
motivation; his jeans are just jeans
and his helmet is white.
His white helmet is not at all interesting
but that’s interesting
because it means reality has energy
independent of your reaction to it:
what the guy with his white helmet means
for you now is that he has for you
now no meaning.
Presently a popsicle-green sedan goes by
in the other direction and its ugliness is
(as regards your off-center life)
a random datum:
no one sent the sedan to insult your gaze,
no one sent you to the window to dislike it.
Well, that’s a thought! But
noting so much randomness wearies you;
time now to turn back to the room
and promote some spirited fiction.