Chances Are


I'm sitting down, feeling the quiet of shared space in which differentiation is always taking place.

I've given up on springing forward or back with people familiar or strange all together like a pod of dolphins to overrun the ocean of a house.

Settled in the chair, comfortable in my body. My mind is the marketplace where stimulation happens, and where love is quick to move back to its center as if the pieces are all in place and not acting in combination with, for example, soft things that have lost their original use.

Settled in the chair, I've been looking out the kitchen window. There is a sink directly below it, recovered from another house less old and far less filled with people than this one. The window itself has seen generations of views. After a little while the view is fatiguing.

I turn my head the other way and see -- edges and shadows of the end of a downright striking corridor and the surface of a small low table practically covered over with magazines and books.

I pick up a half-read book. A few easy phrases from it come to mind immediately but the remainder of it -- its plot, its intent -- is a blur. "Do it again," Mildred said.  "How about dinner at the Fink?" Goodfellow said. Its cover is mottled from having been left some weeks on the bench in the bathroom, I remember saving it last night from that wet place, but it is no longer pleasant to hold between the hands, therefore likely will no more be read. Chances are it will be thrown away.