I am not required
to move today.
The light falls where it falls.
A plane is circling somewhere.
A child stares wordless from
a passing car.
A clock tower lists the hours
like unpaid debts.
I scratch my knee,
watch the fly stumble on the rim
of my half-drunk glass.
The world keeps muttering its lists—
appointments, notifications—
a steady grammar of demand.
But I will not conjugate it.
I will leave the messages unread,
the duties unclaimed, the wires unplugged.
You might sit beside me,
and feel — if briefly — the raw mercy
of being unnecessary.
No striving, no improvement.
Only air moving slowly through us.
I will not join the machinery today
(nor tomorrow).
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