On Becoming Aware (Again!) of One's Nothingness

This allergy to cinnamon comes on,
From flavored Mini-Wheats (from Kellogg's! New!).
I stare outside the window as I chew,
Repressing burps to watch the snow beyond.
This allergy will pass; it is not fact,
A chemical reaction for one day,
A day when I have nothing hard to say,
And nothing on my plate, no tasks to stack.
In truth, this day, like those I knew before,
Is matched by every day that did precede.
There is no work to do, no field to seed,
No effort to endure, no need, no chore.
Perhaps I'll plumb the sink that doesn't drain,
Or write these words as they emerge in light.
Perhaps I'll watch the snow into the night,
Or change my name, or craft a dance for rain.
I've eaten every pillow.  Here's the cat.
I'll walk his path today, and that is that.