While whiling my time

while whiling my time inside, with the tv on the backburner,
advertisements percolating, the wet towel drying itself on the radiator,
the offline laptop firmly shut up like a very tired clam, the hair dryer
encoiled around the foot of the Ikea sofa in conversation, books
in a state of utter deshabille, the cup from last night with mouth beckons
for more coffee, the bed almost tidy in the voice of a game show host
says, give him a round, didn't he do well, a tobacco stained ceiling light
sans bulb, looks like a ufo in a polaroid, while its compadre, a blue desk
top lamp in frozen state like a heron about to pierce some books
a tie from the waterworks, slung over the back of a chair, slips into a coat,
a domestic scene that states all too explicitly the deliverance from effort
Meanwhile, from outside, I hear the orchestra of the feathery friends
the blackbirds in a territorial spate, the machine gun rat a tat of titmice
wood pigeons from a conifer cornered by development, held at bay
by bungalows, coo their love songs, and seagulls scavage the sky
all of this, the inside and outside, blend into the morning utterance
that yes, I do exist, I really do, I really really do.