Indolence, an Ode

Joe Todaro

This means moments hours-long 

when one can rest upon chair of choice 

and consider the wind outdoors;

nothing like a house that’s silent 

but for its own breath, 

in late winter forced-air shimmer, 

tinnitus like cicadas under fridge murmur; 

There will be a slow hum of cars, 

of doors and stair-steps; 

a vast negotiation beyond that door. 

Here is a steaming cup of coffee, 

water bottle over the evening’s pills, 

some sheet music, a pen; 

I remember a fervor in acquiring these things 

but now they are here. 

They show us images of unrealness 

many forms; follow us 

into our tender sinews of understanding; 

foretell, depict, re-tell, repeat; 

So it is well to acknowledge the real - 

Left hand, creased, holds down 

the opposite page; 

there upon summon of these eyes.

JT 3/2020