Boiled Eggs

Have I lost my ability to enjoy life?

I ask as I sit, back again the window sill,

Feet pressed on the cool iron slats of the fire escape.

I close my eyes to feel the sun against my aching chest

And the crisp fall air kiss my shoulders.

The pot of eggs boils on the stove behind me

while a humming bee perches on my thumb.

I sit in a droll of heavy silence, my mind sluggish and numb -

Is this all I am? I fear I have forgotten how to live.