The South Office

(Part of a thread to share poems or poetry-adjacent writing as discussed here.)  

I sit quietly 

without any phone service  

at my south office 

which is my shorthand 

for this cliff with this vista

of greens, blues, and grays.

Each time I come here    

(not very far from my house;

it’s half an hour’s drive, 

less than checking stocks,  

less than one day’s email spam 

or three news segments)

if it’s not too hot

with nobody shooting guns,

not too many bugs,

then I always think:

why not come here every day?

But I rarely do.

A smart guy once said 

if you can’t find ten minutes

a day to be still 

you are probably 

losing your mind. You might

even think of this place 

(when you are running 

too hard, too fast, or just through

too much damn bullshit) 

as a sort of food, 

water, basic self-defense, 

antibiotics. 

Kierkegaard once said

people are sure to notice  

losing things like legs, 

spouses, fifty bucks,

or many other such things,  

while the greatest threat—

losing one’s self—

may pass by so quietly 

it seems like nothing.