Now I think simplicity relates to space.
Epicurus had only his garden, his lentil
porridge. Sick, I ambled through mine,
caring little for what went on beyond the picket fence.
Every morning, a bowl of muesli. Endlessness
and novelty I don’t handle well, though
I’m aware they’re a trick of the mind—
that somewhere there’s a falling
off and what is new is old remade,
like a castle of stone or wet sand.
Often, I am happiest confined
to bed or a park bench on the first warm day
of spring, watching people go by,
some with a sense of purpose.
William G. Gillespie lives and writes in Brooklyn. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Boats Against the Current, Red Eft Review, Olney Magazine, and The Drunken Canal.
Eunoia Review 