The Gospel of Monotony

As I get into middleage 
I notice how the grammar 
of anatomy 
is expressed 
as much 
in small, accidental 
gestures 
as it is 
in the grander, more obvious ones.  

For instance, yesterday, walking home 
with a rolling suitcase filled with laundry, 
I fell behind a young man -- late teens, early 20s -- 
walking with his legs very close together 
while video-gaming his thumbs 
over the screen of his phone. This 
wheat-straw shape of a person 
camouflaged in our New York hick sliver 
of the world, 

and I became preoccupied with the redistribution of 
energy across muscle groups across the body 
and how it looked like the young man was 
walking in two worlds -- one mainly 
on the pads of his feet and one mainly 
on the pads of his thumbs. 

And I thought, I think, How many times have I seen 
this exact same thing, 
this exact same thing, 
this exact same thing: 
the tiny refusals 
of the seemingly ageless 
plucking along like 
giant drunk ants 
hypnotized into arrogance 
and 
the bells & whistles of 
a life they will soon forget? 

****