just as you are taking a shower for the ten thousandth five hundredth and forty-first time
and getting in your little car to go to your little work
and caressing your computer with something quite honestly like sexual desire
the years finally catch up with you and then overtake you
disappearing into the ocean of the future leaving a history in their wake
that is not your history but anyway you are far too busy doing nothing to notice
the ripples and wavelets in the water striving to settle into some recognisable if obscure pattern
too busy eyeing up the menu in the indo-european takeaway
arguing with your wife or husband or son or daughter about the state of the country or the bedrooms
watching a small moving screen which you control with aching wrist and fingers and heart
so busy standing still without realising you are standing still
that the art and religion and geography and history of your own history
your own unexciting but significant-because-it-belongs-to-you history
vanishes as you turn the other way while undressing to protect your modesty
gurgles anti-clockwise down the plughole of your bath as you climb out of your bath
at the end of this unexceptional day or week or month or year or decade of your life
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