His fury ineffable
yet quite bona fide.
He kept for himself a checklist
that was meretricious
and thus not real.
So he crossed all of it out
and wrote down,
"Didn't do anything meaningful today.
Wasn't productive."
That was what he always did
while facing the harrowing hindrance of unproductivity.
It made him feel productive.
Yet what did such productivity mean in the first place?
So he wrote it all away
and folded it and stored it ever so neatly
and then escaped
fleeing, being
the only thing he knew how to do well.
Thus begins our spell
as the man went out on that lonely night of nothingness
to a coffee shop forlorn
lights dimmed, worn
out.
He hurried into there to avoid the rain's danger.
Thus begins a notable talk with a stranger.
He knew it from the beginning—
that it would be a thing remembered.
Without reason this knowledge was innate
at the moment he saw how the man's eyes were moving.
The stranger's wife had died
just two weeks prior
so the lonely lover chose to reside
at this random diner.
Twas as random as he was
but not that random relatively
for he worked there for years.
Tis now dead when it used to be lively.
It used to be bustling with people!
Yet now it was empty
and cascaded with rain
and the man sat on a bench wiping tables
being now crippled, old and lame
doing the same things he used to do when he was young and able.
You may ask why he was wiping the damn table
when there were so many other things with which he was able
to do.
