The Clay Pot That Emptied Itself
There are few thoughts
in this empty vessel,
steeped in a chemical bath
at the cost of forty dollars a month.
I once worried over timecards
and transportation and shopping and
and where my next cigarette was
inside a dry skull with a dull thud.
Now there are the small, white pills
taken in the morning
before I've given any thought
to this or that or why I'm here;
little, white, divided pills
that smell like paint thinner
stop all the worry and consideration
that once led down endlessly forking roads.
The thoughts that were are gone:
the electric charge of hypotheses,
the rise and fall of battles won
and lost and begun and imagined.
I am left to forage for animal fulfillment
among food and drink and people
to satiate every present, terminal desire.
I am left hard-pressed at day's end
to recall a distinct impression;
There are only rapid snapshots,
soundless, thoughtless scraps of one thing or another
to which I have lost all attachment.