119/365

he sits on the couch
every night, in the glow
of the machine,
glasses on,
to read. to write.
saturated by the glare
that makes his head throb
most days- searching.
waiting. for it.

doom scrolling. likes. hearts.
google searches:
poems. inside he breaths
quietly with intention.
mindful awareness
leads to boredom
most days.
the ball starts rolling
him chasing
to keep up,
desperate for an image
or some efficacious metaphor
he can dress up with
rags from the thesaurus.

there is nothing glamorous
or romantic about this
procedure. like all habit
there is a comfortable familiarity
that hems the mundane
spectacle of routine.

but to disprove the notion of talent
he clocks the hours
every night. like erosion
or rot. as everything breaks down
he will be there,
to see what’s
next.