Poetry

Sitting at the Bottom

How long has it been since I allowed myself a satisfying sit in one of Barnes and Noble’s giant comfy chairs?
When I get there or anywhere
I’m moving, on my feet,
Like a shark
If I stop, I’m going to drown in the murky suspended animation of my mind
That whirls loud and humming in my ears
Stuck underwater
And I don’t realize that it’s a constant sound until
I come up for air
In a chair.

Why am I always thinking
I need a very specific set of surroundings?
Just to turn down?
Tune out?
Especially when all I need to get from the ocean to the beach is
Five minutes
A notebook
A pen
And a chair.

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