Unsettled

I am unsettled.
I wait-
I watch-
I wonder-
and then I start all over again.

This overtakes me,
this listlessness,
this wishlessness.

Poured in a glass and left to aerate
on the counter,
it sends a memory of better times into the room.

It asks me to drink it down
quickly –
before the bouquet
can develop into something that matters
or that might matter
or that might weigh heavily enough to matter
someday
to someone.

At least I can drink it before the
sediment
(or the sentiment)
collects at the bottom of this
dirty, chipped and recycled tumbler
that pretends to be crystalline.

M. Scofield 11/19/2009