Bigger

Hangnails on still hands, 

so visible,

paused

above the keys. 

Afraid to simply list 

the pleasures of the day.

Who is owed wonder? 

Who has earned it?

I floated above my desk, 

each mannered greeting

untethered me, 

and in floating

gravity became

the headstream of awe,

and this new state banal.

Fatigued, I floated home.

Vague, diffuse, unearned,

the ache of office days.

The clerk feels his life

unreal.

I feel my life.

I think I am owed wonder.

Proximity to celebrity?

Or something whispered

by my unmet god?

Desire grows, for things.

The monitor on my desk

Is disconnected,

geriatric hard drives

maybe harbor wonder?

I float a little further still.

One hundred forty years 

of disconnection.

And eons of illusion.

I would never have been

a hero on my horse,

at least that

I know

and thus must

not

mourn