After the storm, to find a shelter
amongst the restless natives
of l’esprit de l’escalier,
to put on a brave face
while running laps on a treadmill,
to stay preoccupied
with mingling,
to leave unpaid debts
so as to be remembered
as a fine fellow, courtesy of none…
It’s time to age, I presume,
even if I can’t always be salient—
I am not Lear or Godot,
not even Gantenbein—
and I’m no longer read as much.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
