The only event in my life

There is no adventure in my hand
Old ground under my foot
everywhere I go
My head is a blank varnished
Ikea plywood desk
No drawers
A cactus on the worktop
it has droopy thorns

Eyes are tired of reading
My life is a book
it did not sell very well
it was rated two of five
only one comment
"boring"

In my quest for adventure
I went to New York
and there I stole
a detective story

Suddenly something happend
There was an erection
in the cactus thornes
I did something
nobody did before

Felt like a car fresh from
the reconditioning workshop
a little tree dangling
in the rear view mirror
smelling of wild cherries

This wonderful feeling
lasted until the evening
when scrolling through
yesterdaysprint
(dot tumblr dot com)
reading a headline from
St. Louis Star and Times
(year nineteen twenty one)
"Detective Stories
Most Often Stolen
in New York Library"

Like a bottle of soft drink
opened weeks ago
the book of my life
is luke warm water
void of sparkles
The only event in my life
being adventurous and bold
was a trodden cliche
even hundred year ago