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I cut the orange in two and the two parties are not equal. I watch the driveway, study irregularities in market fluctuation, the bird humming at the feeder. It’s colder than yesterday. Very dark. I’ve been here now two years and haven’t received a letter. One hour of sleep before midnight is worth three in August. Do you know what I mean? Women in particular responded once to my advances. I’ve been researching Buddhism on my phone for twenty minutes. They say one thing exists in every hidden thing. Soon I will replace myself with the sound of a prayer bell application. Cigarettes drag time. I get news alerts: first the harbinger of the storm, followed by an icon of the sun covered in raindrops, then nothing to look forward to. Another coffee without milk. There’s no hurry. In a few hours a sprinkler system automatically operates. Someday somewhere I believe someone will depend on my presence at a recital or, more likely, their ride home. I wish there were more time to go back to school, read the classics, clean the pool. The doctor will arrive soon to walk me around the bend up in the road, pause at colonial gravesites. I could care. Gradually these fields broaden, brown, and we walk back.
Brett Fletcher Lauer
Author of the poetry collection A Hotel in Belgium (Four Way Books, 2014), Brett Fletcher Lauer is the deputy director of the Poetry Society of America and the poetry editor of A Public Space. He lives in New York City.