sigh

what sorry days, these,
which chatter endlessly on and on
yet say nothing.
cicadas singing in
the evening
tell me more
than do a day's worth
of garbled urban tasks
ticking past
with fastidious
disdain
even as i disdain them.

what discontent, this,
which demands that i should
seek the unfulfilled life
when i seek
to seek
nothing
and, so,
fail.