I am not at a thing.
The things have dried up (or I have stopped going). I am thingless.
I reach for my pen. I doodle. It turns out to be a bank statement.
I scratch. I put on a jumper. I take it off again. The thing has left me.
Perhaps it was never here at all. There is a robin in the apple tree.
From down the road the voices of children, from a playground.
A train in the valley, the two notes of its horn. Then silence.
There is no thing. No thing is there. Nothing. No thing at all.
I have made a face on the bank statement. A man, perhaps.
His eyes are enlarged zeroes, a joke about dollar signs ringing up.
I made this much last month. And now I have made nothing.
I am nothing. No (thing). Without the thing, nothing. I cease.
Perhaps it will come back (perhaps I will). Perhaps never.
From the corner of the desk a book, open at random, it seems.
It may have always been there (perhaps forever). Perhaps it was me.
You need to sit in silence, on your own, with no distractions, it says.
I manage for five seconds. The me without the thing, the not at the thing.
Intolerable. Intolerant of silence, of me gnawing at it. The Thingless.