Like a Man Gone Mad: Poems in a New Century

Sloth Is a Lost Art

85 Sloth Is a Lost Art You thought you’d take to menus à la carte with service, room and tax included in a prepaid package—and the Fahrenheit the same from day to day. You practiced what believers call the virtue of abandonment. And for a time it helped. You totally forgot what Brando’s folly in Tahiti prophesied. He bought an island where he had the sea desalinated, ordered what he ate flown in and woke each day to propagate the race. Short-lived as Walden but less noble, the outcome was the same. The sea sailed back to salt, the dinners spoiled in flight, and all the virgins in Tahiti mated, mothered, aged and in the process went to fat . . . For you the change was not as radical. Lounging every day became a day 86 too long. You hungered for the phone to ring. Monday was Thursday was Sunday. Rest as a way of life was hardly a match for the Protestant ethic. Moreover, Eden without its snake became a bore. It made you think that boredom must have made one apple seem more succulent to Eve than usual. Or so she dreamed. According to the myth, our history began when Eve succumbed to something tempting on a whim. The choice was simpler when it came to him. Since he had nothing much to think about and no experience at all with apples, consequence or women, Adam bit. And that was it. ...