Sisyphus



The plant in the grad student lounge
wants for nothing, but never grows.

He chain smokes rapidly and jogs every day.

He studies human need behind iconic statues and silver crosses,
reads Camus and Sartre between articles on religiosity and The Denial of Death.

What he wants is to quantify the intimacy between people and their gods.
What he wants to know is: will the leaves bleed, translucent white, if he breaks them?

His hypothesis: the leaves are plastic.

Because I’m from the Bible belt -
because I’m an atheist.

His smile - the waxy green isn’t convincing.

Look - some people drink, some pray.
I study psychology.

Our conversations always end abruptly and I’m never quite sure what was said.

I don’t believe his doubt proves the existence of that which he doubts,
But when I close my eyes the fake green dances across my lids a blood red.

As we leave the lounge, the plant glimmers, absurd and bright,
in the moonlight between slats in the blind,

and he is still smiling, content with what he doesn’t believe,
while I shiver in an emptiness I can’t quite agree with;

not while stars shine in oddly shaped constellations
and mountains are so high.