I tell myself that I need
to live more, but the
finitude of what there
is to do constrains me.
I often wonder if there
really is such a thing
as a life well spent
or if even those who’ve
achieved what they set
out to do are simply
birds in a cage,
entranced by their own
melodies, oblivious to
the white bars, and thinking
that the little, artificial
tree stump they perch
on is the real thing.
I want to live more, I say
and so, I go to a bar,
sit in a corner, drink,
watch as people converse,
different shades of life
creating new hues,
the peals of laughter
making me wonder if
I’m missing something,
if I’m standing on the outside
looking through a window
at the Christmas decorations
over the fireplace,
the viridescent tree,
the mistletoes and the gifts
while the snow turns my
fingertips purple,
scorches my feet with searing cold,
but then I wonder if I’m wrong,
maybe some mask their ennui
while it settles on others
like sediment at the bottom
of a glass of wine.
Ordinary Person 
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