Everything within reach, beeps at me.
I flinch at the digital screaming,
this perpetual stream
of notifications,
everything important,
Time stamps when it was sent.
I’m starving for some time, well wasted,
With no guilt trip to repent,
no pressing needs, a day dedicated to squandering
No script, just an evening of wandering.
The battery on my phone is dying
at just the right time.
I’m tired of contributing to the National Attention Deficit,
Tired of the games, the news and the requisite
Jump to answer every request.
I’m craving a specific flavor of boredom,
craving daydreams to digest.
That morning I arrived at a client
hours before by laptop was ready
and they set me loose on the city,
a half circle of children in the park,
watching a woman, high on stilts trying desperately
to work the kinks out of her juggling performance,
unable to reach her perpetually dropped pins
trusting only the grace of children
to return them.
This absurdity far more delicious
than any juggling I’ve ever witnessed,
and the kindness of this audience
lifting her up far more than those stilts.
I wonder if she ever put it all together.
I’m craving late nights, summer air cooled,
always looking for a way to stretch them out further,
to steal from the morning, with its rituals and responsibilities.
The world stopped pretending
that it had control of this evening
hours ago and everything is on the table,
all the odds went home, and coincidences stack up
like pancakes trying to head off the hangover
you know is coming.
Within this strange swirl of people
that would never blend in daytime,
random interactions bubble up.
A man on the corner
Squints at the pixelated plumber and gorilla on my shirt,
“Hey man” he says as I barely register him.
“Hey, You, Honkey Kong! Can you spare some change?”
Now, I can pick up an insult almost anywhere,
but that good artisanal shit is rare,
and while I’m increasingly cashless,
the crumbs of some impulse buys have settled in my wallet
and I’m not one to duck an invoice when the job is done well, I don’t remember countless people
I pass on my every day walk
to the train, to the office, to lunch,
my routine copy pasted
but while I inhale this sandwich,
I’m trying to reconjure the way that moment tasted,
the way the air can hang,
without alerts
or expectations.
– Everything Within Reach © Mike Chernoff 06/30/2023
From the collection Steer into the Skid
Chernoff Writing.com 