Same alarm, same ceiling, same gray at the glass,
Same coffee going cold on the same counter — let it pass
The point of being drinkable, I do this every morning,
A talent for just slightly missing things, ignoring
The moment when it’s still worth having.
Pull the same shirt off the same hook,
Run the same route in under the same time,
Nod at the same desk, sign the same book,
Somebody asks how I’m doing — I’m doing fine,
Somebody needs a laugh — I’ve got one that’ll work,
I run the whole performance like a man who came in late
But is covering for it, a reliable jerk
Who shows up and delivers, no questions, straight,
No one the wiser.
Somewhere between the signals, somewhere in the dead air,
I lost the frequency I was running on —
Living in the in-between, can’t locate myself out there,
Tuned to every station but my own.
Dinner at the counter, same show I’ve half-watched twice,
Something funny happens and I wait to feel it land —
It doesn’t, and I note the delay, I note the precise
Gap between the moment and the laugh, and understand
This is what I’ve got right now — this drift, this flat reception,
This being almost-present in a life that’s mostly mine.
I used to know the line between living and performing.
I’ve been performing being fine for such a consistent
Stretch that it’s become the norm, the warming
Low-grade simulation of a man who’s in his life
And not just posed across the furniture of it.