The Couch Potato

This poem is for every couch potato in the world, who chooses dormancy and  the insubstantial over the extraordinary gift of a spirited life. 

He plops himself on the sofa,

like a dysfunctional car in the garage;

with his bowl of chips,

the size of a crater on the moon.

He sits there from dawn to dusk,

like a building that has been there forever,

like an immovable boulder,

like old, unused furniture lying in the attic.

He is a rusting piece of machinery,

a stubborn lid on a jar,

lovers’ names scribbled on a monument,

a dusty corner in the house,

a goal-post in a soccer field,

 a foot path on a busy road,

an old, unswept, crumbly wagon,

 stationed on a railway yard,

 a piece of barren land.

He remains unaffected by the bustle around,

like a holy saint in meditation;

but people around him squirm and squiggle,

fidgeting like souls unable to rest in peace,

vexed at his indifference and aloofness,

that are as exasperating as an ink blotch

on a crispy, new, white shirt.