Which meant there were more hours to be
Bored with all the hours. What we missed
Was how the scents and sounds of those
Dull hours with not that much to do
Wormed through the dark soils of brain cells.
Now, in that rare hour so bold as
To do not a thing, not a chore,
No books, no work, no screens, no calls
To kin or friends—no things at all,
Not so much as a tune played back,
Piped right in the skull, not a brisk
Walk or a hike or a jog, not
A prayer or a sit to chimed bells,
No om, no planned deep breaths, no rules,
Just that which should bore us to death,
Hold it, hold it, don’t say it, just
Don’t dwell on it, just yawn, stretch, stand,
Or sit. Don’t look it up. Don’t check.
And if you do, oops, don’t sweat it—
Now, wait, what’s that smell? What’s that hum,
That sense not quite sound, sight, or smell?
That. It feels like we know it, like
We knew it once. Seems full, ripe. Spiced.
