THE RITES OF INDOLENCE

by John Tottenham

(excerpted from THE INERTIA VARIATIONS)

Breathing in the stale draughts
That sift through the cracks in the sofa,
Slowly dreaming myself into a demoralized fog
That loosely resembles the conscious state.
Groggy with unneeded sleep, I approach the table
Wondering if there is any use, at this point,
In attempting to do anything.
Probably not. But the gesture, at least, must be made.