Languid
Hand splayed over the side of the couch
Lukewarm Earl Grey just out of reach
The book I love has fallen to the ground
and my body caves into the pillows
Unhurried, unlike all the other people
who are hurricaning through life
and leaving wisps of disinterest
like dew drops in their wake
The remote is too far to matter
The light switch a planet away
My back, cratered into the creases
as I lay languid, waiting for a butler
© Jonathan Greene, July 11, 2026
