Leftovers

And another day has flopped down in front of you, resting after last night's stormy lovemaking between earth and sky - you take your seat near where the river whispers its secrets as it does every morning. It shows you its hoard of driftwood and plastic bottles. To it, all is prized, all given a home. Habit has you pushing thought boats out into the channel hoping they'll be carried into the bay then out to open sea, finally washing up on the shores of someone else’s mind, or sink mid ocean to become part of something bigger although you can never figure out what that is. People pass with faces carrying an invitation and a need to talk. Your eyes are elsewhere, staring through and beyond them as if they were glass, out pass landscapes, air, everything - to a place that is no place, just nothingness. Sometimes you feel as if you are about to dissolve, not knowing into what. The river, you're sure, would prize the leftovers.