the one to worry about
I failed miserably at imaging nothing.
Something always came to keep me company:
A small nameless bug crossing the table,
The memory of my mother, the ringing in my ear.
I was distracted and perplexed.
A hole is invariably a hole in something.
About seven this morning, a lone beggar
Waited for me with his small, sickly dog,
Whose eyes grew bigger on seeing me.
There goes, the eyes said, that nice man
To whom (appearances to the contrary)
Nothing in this whole world is sacred.
I was still a trifle upset entering the bakery
When an unknown woman stepped out
Of the back to wait on me dressed for a night
Out on the town in a low-cut, tight-fitting black dress.
Her face was solemn, her eyes averted,
While she placed a muffin in my hand,
As if all along she knew what I was thinking