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Resting in Benign Pleasure
By Sy Roth 

They watched me, 
Waiting for a segue.
Continuously gazing at me 
A waxen bowl of fruit
Tantalizing, 
Clinging to my every move
Like lichen on the leeward side of an ancient oak,
Like barnacles on the underbelly of a ship 
Gasping expectantly 
Awaiting my keel hauling.

I dared an idle life,

I am a blushing-red, waxen apple resting atop 
Single yellow banana, 
Erect among the pear and globular-red grapes.

In my quiet hours of an armchair 
Sitting idly by a window overlooking a waxen-western sun, 
Humming a lilting song to the juicy, tangerine-soft rustle of grasses 
Dancing among the ferns
A mambo to a sirocco wind.
 
Cochlear serenity 
Settles in.

indolence writes a silly book filled 
swirling in the brackish waters of their existence—
as I, a rotund Macintosh, rest niggardly and escape.

They Google frantically—
add apps to their already long playlist of useless ventures,
having spirited debates about my latitude and longitude.
They bide their time awaiting their own frenzied End
As I, afloat in the bowl of fruit, revel in my indolence.
They die in their fashion astride fictitious, snorting steeds,
Their backs bent, arms laden with Sancho Panza spears tilted downward.
And I dwell in my own painting, red-ochre in lethargy.

Their frenetic activities justify their existence. 
Firehouse-red exit arrows guide their exigencies
while I, un-bored, rest in benign pleasure
Confused by an un-need for the trilling loons.

A blue, velvet drape of Victorian-prim frames the bowl.
Mindful of their confusion, I settle into my page-turning frenzy of non-activity.
Beneath a rainbow sky, cloudless, crammed with endless thoughts
painted on the rime of morning mist.

Guides my exit.

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