Nothing happens for a reason

And nothing happens all the time.

My pen tips the paper,

Ideas disintegrate.

 

Maybe one day

The Irish Film Council

Will fund my documentary

On the sexual exploits

Of the modern sloth.

 

There will be ham and wine

At the celebration.

Someone will tie my shoelaces

For a small fee.

The marshmallows shall be plentiful

And I will wear a tuxedo

For the first time.

 

But instead

Nothing keeps happening.

A magnified form of nothing

And nowhere to escape from nothing

With nothing to lose.