He sits at his table doing the crossword;
A Zen crossword - doing it by not doing it
A man who sits and thinks and doesn't.
His dreams of riches gnawed at by the mice;
His ambitions of fame drying cold on the plate;
A man with a girlfriend in every town except his own;
A myriad of friends he never sees or calls,
His cushion stained with gravy,
His dictionary torn and thumb-eared,
The television jerking soundlessly,
His fish tank as still as the grave,
The Chinese carpet parked with boxes,
The cupboard filled with boxes,
Shelves full of boxes and books -
The sideboard arranged like a garden,
Filled glass jars the perennials,
Height provided by the wooden spoons,
Showy displays of cheese and jam tarts,
Old favourites like the egg-carton and toaster;
Hanging things from the available hooks,
An Inuit montage, the parsley crop, and wind chimes,
A snake of napkin rings, and a banana rack of cards;
By his chair a bag of heavy metals,
With a flattened water-cylinder atop,
An Inca sculpture with its burnished tones;
And everywhere a stillness like a latent spring,
The leaning tower of flower pots, the piles of paper,
The glass jars full of coloured string.
Poised for Aslan's coming,
Waiting for the Sun to come,
And warm the hearts of Man.