Contentment

Contentment

Not all that hard, really, given you 

never leave the house or happen to know

anyone who talks about things they do. 

So long as you never chance to look 

out the window or look in 

a mirror or pick up a book 

other than the memoir you’ll self-

publish when you get around to it, 

you’ll be fine, assuming you’re never

mailed the neighbor’s utility bill

or see the neighbor through a chink

in the fence or of an evening watch

the geese vanish over the pine copse 

in silent confirmation that other places 

exist. None of that relentless repentance 

shit, sheer grit that living takes and dying

too, unless you’re one of those

children of men who can’t seem

to find a world to call their own.