All this day with its weight of stone –
with its terrible freight of unmoving time.

The walls inch closer as we come
to grips with the torpor of sameness.

Let’s do something, anything, we say,
even if it’s simply flipping the bum a quarter.

What genius is he hiding, after all, ensconced
under his heap of blankets as winter creeps in?

What other saints and bodhisattvas pass by us
every day, chewing their gum and chuckling?

We’d better not stare because you don’t know
who’s trying to hide a satchel of erotic dreams.

Glancing at the blank TV, our minds made up,
we grab the remote and aim it like a gun.

Tomorrow will be better we say, although
neither of us knows quite what that entails.

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Bruce Gunther is a retired journalist and poet who lives in Michigan. His poems have appeared in the Comstock Review, Modern Haiku, the Remington Review, and others.