NOT HAVING AN IDEA

I am lying on the floor
In an airport bathroom
I have secluded myself there
Charging my cell phone
I am seduced by my body
It wants to move, stretch
You don't have to sit and wait
In terminals
You might have to sit on the plane,
But you don't have to while waiting
It's strange that I want to be alone
Away from the human warmth
The existential company
Of other travelers
Normally I would eavesdrop on their lives
Or read scraps of newspapers left on chairs
Now I see a bug on the tile floor, moving
I don't have my glasses, can't tell what it is
I suspect it's a young roach.
Then I see a small roach on the wall nearer my eye
Yes, they should repulse me
I should be jumping up
To prevent them from crawling onto my coat
But I don't. I share the tile with them.
As I am stretching those tendons
That need it so much
And I think I'm going to realize
Some grand beautiful connection
Between yoga, my body, roaches, airport solitude, tile
It feels on the tip of my mind
I give it space,
But no great idea comes
No, it is just me and the roaches
in the bathroom
at the airport
That is all
Nothing monumental from the frontal lobes