Ennui When Watching the Ocean

The onion man at the farmer’s market

rants to me about preventative medicine.

I’m his captive audience because

            I need

an onion for the burger

            I’ll make

for dinner tonight.

My pockets silent, out of  loose change.

The onion man doesn’t mind.

            I take

the onion and tell the onion man

I’ll pay him next week.

            I take

my onion: wilted reward for listening,

biting prize for a promise.

The onion, now my captive audience,

wedged in a tote bag I stole from my mother.

            I rant

to the onion about

missing the boat, baggage, obstructed views.

The onion lives, for now,

next to a book from the library.

The book is preventative medicine.

Maybe insurance will cover the late fees.

Careful,

            I hear

my mother somewhere rant,

don’t incur a debt you can’t pay.

At home, I grill the burger, slice the onion—

            it protests, I weep.

I shout to my neighbor,

ask about the day passed.

We rant to each other

about             emptiness.

We are each other’s captive

audience, accidentally indebted

to each other by simple city planning.

We share a fence: preventative medicine

against weeds, boundaries, the public.

            We share

this conversation, preventative medicine

against the pull of night,

loneliness, synonym for living.

After dinner, I wash the dishes,

look out the window.

            I say

to the world: Captivate me.

The world spins. I mimic the motion.

            I hear

my mother somewhere,

reminding me of my motion sickness.

            I prevent

nausea by losing track of time.

The world laughs and calls me dizzy.