The Couch.

I often find myself looking out of windows.
I remember Julius Caesar liked to look out of windows.
The sun sets in the west and rises in the east; at that time,
I am sleeping, dreaming of Hamlet.  What once was now is now
before, and I don't know when I will be back.  The drawing of myself
is hanging in the living room, brought to me by Jack Hanner, the man
who stole my heart.  He didn't exactly steal it; my heart still remains
beating.  I don't know about the beating of other things in this world;
the beating of the drum on Harlan Avenue from the man in the blue hat,
the beating of the rain as it pours down onto the windows of my house.
My house is big enough to fill a hundred fig bars, they are my favorite.
I think about eating.  Eating is eating.  It fills up ten minutes out of
the day then we're back doing other things again, reading, watching
tv, fighting with our loved ones about who gets the couch.