Remembering Boredom

  
Sometimes I forget not to be bored.
 
I only remember when I am wishing some horror would end, 
like when pitched to the pivotal moment just before a pronounced sentence,
a reading of my fate.
 
Or, little less than terror, a performance evaluation 
by a man sitting at the back of my classroom with a pen, eyes, ears and judgment,
leaning on every word, gesture and response. 
 
I am notated.
 
Anticipating the fall while peering over the precipice, 
these are the times I pray for the ordinary I eschew every other moment of every day:
 
the groans and dull-eyed drudgery of waking, pissing, showering, caffeinating
and driving the drive in unrelenting heat circulating about my head
blown by the broken air conditioner of a beat up car awaiting the junk yard,
or the crying mop times of late night I’m-just-too-tired-to-do-this moans of despair—
 
for the boredom, tedium, godawful-lobotomizing numbness of mindless repetition
like factory fingers twisting bow knots on an endless assembly line, 
the industrial rosary, sans soothing rhythmic sync.
 
Deimos and Phobos, moons of my memory, usher me back to boredom, 
box seat of the stadium, luxury of the lucky lottery winners of life,
born colorless, coddled and cocooned.