Sea Room

Useless Days

Useless Days These are the useless days, and in the calendar of heaven there's nothing planned. Deaths occur, somewhere, everywhere, and who knows who belongs to whom? In this city, marbles roll into open drains, into the loveliness of lost things. Such and such adds up, so if I once burst into tears in the reception area of a physician's office it had nothing to do with my treatment. The white light of medical places keeps me alone; my name written on a form seems plain but nurses stumble over it. I forget the business going on, the others whose lives have failed early, whose hearts have given out. I shouldn't complain, but I just can't check my pulse enough. It's an informal question and the question assures me. It might have no meaning beyond its one meaning. Let therapists build their homes upon me! Today as I walked to work, I noticed a cement mixer churning the ore for a municipal project. They were widening a street that seemed wide enough to me, as if many things at once could possibly smash. I wondered what happens to memos written just before companies collapse, who gathers up apologies sent to improper addresses? As the sun lifted like a heavy glue over the cold offices, I saw two women crossing the street, holding the same handbag. They appeared to be two great needs sharing one desire. Each form was familiar, each flesh, 34 and the little purse in between was glossy as a mirror. I turned to my question; I took my question by its little wrist, I said, "Did you see that?" The day, all days and recollections replied, "\es, we see." For a while, at my desk, I was filled with gladness in the form of sickness. 35 ...