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.

Copyright © Sy Roth | Year Posted 2021

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