Segments of dun-coloured time.
A casual, wayward glance.
Piling up of unwritten poems.
Not picking up the chance.

Peeling off the calendar,
just because I should.
Walking down least resistance,
just because I could.

Insipid storytelling.
Sporadic laughs at sordid events.
Insincere attempts unyielding.
No surprises at consequence.

Driving down to the city,
because it’s a Monday chore.
Not picking up a newspaper
because there’s no meaning left anymore.

Unintentional witticisms.
Skimming while reading a book.
Languishing in transits.
Letting go of a crook.

Waking up to another day,
just because you couldn’t die.
There is dispassionate living,
in this lackadaisical life.