An apathetic mood with

rattling bones and unshaven mornings

heavy limbs and twenty-four hour yawning,

when music is muffled

by an earful of invisible cotton

and tv appears like a

flashing procession of attention-seeking obsessions;

books that amused and inspired have transformed

into miniature coffins containing

frozen paragraphs for epitaphs

saying nothing in particular.

But the ringing phone

could spark a new connection, a change in direction

instead a salesman offers a promotion

silky cobweb voice with black spider heart

entrapment his real intention, as I stare into a mirror and

listen:

“a supreme discount for special customers…”

“an offer that is almost too good to offer…” ha ha ha

momentarily I suddenly inhabit the mirror

and watch a playful imitator hold the phone

who, for unknown reasons, says:

“the spirit

is essence

the body

an ego trip”

unfamiliar territory, outside the web of

money silky voice wonders

a madman? a junky?

No, today I’m nothing in particular and

grabbing a book at random

read from crime and punishment to discover

after one paragraph the line clicks softly

dead.

Dostoyevsky is bad for a salesman’s digestion

won’t stick to his web like other flies

and for the first time in days

a book amuses and inspires.