Sitting on the porch of a house in some rural enclave
with the sun scorching each green leaf,
             the thinker thinks
He is formulating the theory that human beings
may exist, in part, only to be interrupted:
that the smooth progress of their lives, their work,
            their dreams and desires
would not progress at all without someone
             walking in on them

In other words, it is the observation of the
human being at work, at play, that reminds them
             of what they are really doing
A person sees himself in someone else’s eyes,
and what he sees (she sees) is the recognition
of value, the shock of perversion, or the sadness,
             sweet and singular,
in a troubled human’s troubled sigh

After all, for all his life, the thinker has been
            interrupted
by women who want to discuss their problems,
by children who want him to make up games,
by pets who turn up unexpectedly in the kitchen
            or the garage
and want, whatever it is in their heart of hearts
            that they were created to want

But now the thinker has retreated to the lonely woods
and grass, and grassy mountains, deep in summer,
            possibly at the end of his life
and having brought with him no women,
            no children,
no animals of any kind, he is simply waiting
He looks down the empty road and wonders

When the time comes, you will, too