Minimalism

Life reduced to bare essentials,
The cycle of time with scant relief;
Those given to practicing meditation,
Or self-absorbed in entertainments,
The evacuations of the brain,
Are not disturbed by treadmill sameness.
(What year is this? That stickie has slipped
Off the corkboard of the insouciant mind.)
The rigid schedule, infrequently flouted,
The endless tattoo of humdrummitude,
Have won the day, the month, the epoch.
Mondays are stiff with achy joints;
Tuesday, those filthy briefs get laundered;
Wednesday, the evening's devoted to friends;
Thursday, the reader begins a new chapter;
Friday, the mailman delivers more bills;
Saturday--bath and hoovering;
Sunday . . . brunch and a walk across town.
Routine's a millstone for grinding souls--
Comfy, bland, and predictable;
And yet there are nuggets of joie de vivre
Mined from scattered creative cracks,
Institutionalized by mere inclusion
(Right after breakfast, at night before bed)
In the greater scheme. Those are the moments
I live for
And love,
Those are eternity's arrowslits.