The world begins to rest, in theory. Trees subtract chlorophyll

from their leaves, then the leaves entirely

their bare branches reaching to the sky as though

they can grasp the snow that supposedly will follow

the cold winds barely beginning to coat New England.

Rebellion against our hyper-productive world

looks like waiting, like lounging, like laziness

lazy lounge lizard, my mom calls me, though

a live lizard lives in my bedroom, resting constantly.

Whoopie, the lizard's name, has no productivity.

No goals except hunt for crickets, dive after mealworms,

sleep with your little legs upturned knowing no predator will

dare betray the home you've made in this unnatural place.

outside predators lurk around every corner, though so too does

rest, slumber, playful squirrel squabbles and

and - and - and - my brain took a rest mid-thought

arrest mid-thought, as though thought police exist to arrest me

which they would if they did, exist that is, but they don't...

Rest by definition means to cease work

so can I rest if I have never worked? If, like my lazy lizard

my days exist in hazy consumption, until my stomach's hard,

and brief glimpses outside the terrarium?

Rest must exist because exhaustion exists even in the in-between

rejection, acceptance... why bother applying, resume thrown away sight unseen

again and again, throwing oneself to the predators takes work

though their digestion of my remains might, technically, qualify as rest.

The world begins to rest, and I continue to fail at humanity,

watching said world from behind a computer screen, behind a physical window

outside of which squirrels prepare for their own upcoming break.