The Runcible Spoon
Imagination is born of boredom, seaborne
in the doldrums, singing to hidden stars
isolated from the music, bored yet free
of habit and left to one’s devices, without
electrical current, with just the mind. Mars
seems closer. The runcible spoon more real,
the one-handed clap, the unheard fallen tree
in the forest quaking, the silent shout
the lightning strike after a thunderous peal.
These thoughts define and break the boredom
the ancient soul that finds itself safely
alone, embracing a moment as though it’d come
anointed and served by a feckless, indolent kingdom
but when our lives are cluttered, we fall dumb.