In his fifty-fourth year of waking on time,

of taking a shower and not a bath,

of drinking his coffee with NPR,

of checking his collar, the white sleeves,

before putting the shirt on,

of hiding a stain with his tie,

of driving to work while placing a call

to his mother, neighbor, plumber, Verizon,

sometimes his father,

and then not to his father

and then not to his mother,

of parking under the nameless tree,

of trying hard not to be dragged,

entangled in it all, not

to be late, at home, at work, to bed,

for another reticent date,

ignoring with a pill his sciatica,

his sexuality, his insomnia,

the birthday of a friend with a gift card,

one day in his fifty-fourth year

he stops in a bookstore

and opens a book

and does not read,

“Whoever cannot seek

the unforeseen sees nothing.

The known way is the impasse.”    
Note. Heraclitus: “Whoever cannot seek the unforeseen sees nothing for the known way is an impasse.”

Fragments, p. 94. University of Toronto Press.