Small Satisfaction

By Cliff Lake

 

Small Satisfaction

 

A whistle of wind,

The dry rattle

Of what leaves remain to sound,

No requiem here.

Here is nowhere,

Even if it is somewhere,

Perhaps it had a name once,

But it is long unmapped since.

Perhaps for the best:

Its sole inhabitant,

Past hope for salvage,

Having long dismissed his own identity,

Hoping for escape,

To be trapped in the barren.

He has no use for irony,

Though he be gripped by it.

He knows he will not survive here,

Yet animal instinct drives him still,

And finding water he drinks,

And finding prey he eats,

And finding shelter he sleeps,

Then wanders more.

It is a cleansing he thinks,

A reduction to a purer form,

If it is not a redemption.

If he is found,

Will he be known?

If he is known,

Will he be tried?

If he is tried,

Will it matter?

He has already given himself to this waste,

And it has given back,

Though poorly.

Yet it has been enough,

And he will wander another day,

In the nowhere he has found,

Where he has become no one,

And still survives.

He thinks that is what life

Has always been,

The survival of it,

And finds comfort in managing it.

A small satisfaction,

But he will take it.

 

Cliff Lake 4/6/2025

Copyright © Clifford Lake 2025

Location: Wichita, KS, USA

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