What is it about tomorrow
that makes you so hungry
your seconds like whiskers
twitching
sniffing
never
stopping
don’t you ever want to fall asleep in the sun
halfway through a good book
or perhaps novels intimidate you
all that foreshadowing
and flashbacks
severing off whole episodes
of your being
you must wonder
at us writers
falling out of step
with your linear trudge
yet stalked by the perils of inconsequence
we try to stitch our way
from one century to the next
to stain our ideas
into the earth
don’t you see
you are the seat
and you are the enemy
I think I will cast you in my next play
as that plain man
nobody noticed
who quietly
ate the world.