Purpose

Purpose By Sy Roth Woke this morning to a sodden sky Stretched to the limit of my arms And could hear the crack of my back and the crick in my neck To bespeak an existence. I think. Meandered to the bathroom To make as much noise as I could, A steady stream with no relief— So she could hear me. I think. It’s a cereal morning Table decorated with puzzles to solve To wake the neurons, slip the synapses into gear Nourish the body with vitamins to ward off the bleak river-carrier. Ready. I think. Until an imp of perverse intent Crept in beside me and painted pictures of the interminable Sameness For yet another cycle. Happy to be alive. I think. Until an inkling rankles me at the edges And I wonder about the purpose. What is purpose? Ultimately to feed the soil? Procreate, a generative reality in a degenerative world, Plant a seed in a secret soil To test the limits of purpose when there is no reason Beyond existence to nurture the unknowable. I think. For there may be no purpose-- Carbon dioxide generator For the trees And ultimately for the worms Or Emily’s fly buzzing above our bier. I think-- And cogito no longer in the long run.