NOTHING DOING

Oh, sure, you could worry about the impending end of the world. No one 
would blame you. Or you could do nothing at all. All it takes is practice. 
Or you could lie on your couch, close your eyes, and dream in a colorful void, 
ever-chasing the psychedelic paisleys at the back of your eyelids. Or you could 
do nothing at all. It’s that easy. All it takes is practice. You could take a nap 
with your cat lying beside you and catch him dreaming fitfully or, more likely,
at peace with his exalted station in life. Or you could do nothing at all, especially 
if you don’t have a cat. Or you could weave a cat’s cradle with a knotted piece
of string and pretend you have a cat. All it takes is practice. And string. 
Or you could pour salt in your wounds and call it absolution. Or mortification. 
Or you could do nothing at all, it’s that easy, and you have no wounds, anyway, 
let alone any requiring absolution or mortification. Or you could watch me blow
cigar smoke rings into the ether, then catch them as they waft into mist and linger 
in an aromatic haze. Still, the law has banned smoking indoors. (Shame!) 
In that case, you could do nothing at all. All it takes is practice. Or you could
check your phone for emails or text messages, although you receive few, if any, 
these days and don’t read or answer them if you do. Better still, you could do
nothing at all. All it takes is practice. It’s well worth the time and effort. 
Doing nothing is that easy. Give it a whirl, Brother. Or, on second thought, 
don’t bother. There’s nothing doing here anyway. 

Stephen Grant is a writer and poet, turning to this endeavor after a lengthy professional career. His work has now been published in over a dozen literary/poetry journals. He lives in Toronto with his spouse and Maine coon cat, Felix.