Now the neighbor’s voice rises
in an aria, a shaky tenor,

I’m loathe to do work;
at some point, everything

has become tiring. A stick
-brown lizard startles

as the AC shudders
to life, resurrected

from its former
frozen state,

strange, ice forming
in the heat of the day.

I am half hoping
for a similar result,

pushing past all
natural stopping

points, tired
of rambling

towards trite
collects, tired

of resting, tired
of tired — how

obvious can
I get — ennui

is a word I refuse
to use. Next door,

the singing has
descended into

what could charitably
be called a drinking

song, although the day
is still young. Even

the presence
of a wasp fails

to rouse me.
I suppose this

is what naturally
follows anger

and bargaining.
A cricket has

started, also
thrown off by

the clouds;
if unable to

be right, at least
we can be loud.