Loitering

And so he sat and thought
between the soup
and the semolina,
how this or that would be a good idea,

considered
how a lawn needed seeding,
or how a life needed living
to colour in the threadbare spots,

or laid out detailed maps
of strange exotic places where
his mind could stray

without once touching down,
a kind of aimless
brainy ectoplasm,
not the real thing at all,

or like a mist that drifted
over unseen hills at night
eventually coming to rest in the valley between,

wavering,
silent and numb.
Morning light would shift it.
Probably.