The Teddy Bear In My Room? Poem by RIC BASTASA

i write a poem
for you, and for a time,

after a poem or two,
life begins to bore me,
a writer,

and so i decide to go out
from this cell, and
i open a door and step outside
in the cold

afternoon, and i take a stroll
hoping to think some more,
why life should not be boring

after all,
and i think about nothing and
just let my senses go where
they want to go,
the eyes to the end of this

road, the ears on their
interest to the sound of the
wind and some gossipy breeze,
my feet are complaining
and so are the hands,

and this body is not united
like this country where i live,
and i promise myself to write
another poem after this
wandering, perhaps about

nothing at all, for what is there
that has substance?
what is there which tells me
about the contentment of
content? that which must be
snatched from the beautiful

hold of this universe
and be stuffed like a
teddy bear in my room?