Idly Dying

his mind will
forever wander,
his body shivers,
the confectioner's weather sprinkles
and crawls in
without invitation.

out he goes.
his clothes rustle in the wind,
his ears perk, and his eyes
blink.
he strains to open them.
"sleep," his eyes say.

the salt lands on the flat rim
of the bowl,
rather than in the heart
of the soup.
scattered around the
periphery.
they're flavorless
there.

an old clock ticks.
and the pendulum looks
more natural swinging
one direction than the other.