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Floating

Floating
pushed by wind not will
tide not purpose
disconnected
from canvas or power
floating.
Feet don’t seem to touch
any ground I can stand upon
I have been launched
let go, loosened from any grip
on gravity
floating.

Routines rolled on by rote
schedules kept without effort
Monday, Wednesday, Friday
paid again.
Remnants of bars of soap
appear like time lapse photography
on the dish in my shower.

Don’t feel planted
plenty of roots
Ficus-like long
but spread out shallow,
a storm could lift and throw me
like an open umbrella, yet
storms always miss me
skirt my coast, lash
lower than my latitude
I hover here
floating.

Tonn Pastore