Scott saw the lake from the highway,
sprawling at a lower elevation beyond the
guard rails and the trees that rose between.
Its green surface was still, untroubled,
undisturbed by the windless afternoon
while Scott drove by, going home from the
buzzing, banging, screeching noises of the
Amazon warehouse; the rush as he dashed
from one row to another, scrambling to pick
and pluck and rummage another profligate
item, Made In China, that was as needful
to the average consumer
as a scarf in summertime,
trying to meet the quota demanded of him,
minute by minute,
hour by hour,
day by day
unto endless days.
Going home to an empty apartment
after a twelve-hour shift
dumping himself into a box
in accordance to his bin number
and mailing himself out the next morning
to the same Amazon warehouse
to pick and pluck and drop all over again.
He wanted a vacation.
A real vacation.
He wanted to go to that lake —
not to fish
or to camp
or to swim,
but to plunge his car
headlong into the depths of it and let
that placid stillness envelop him
as he sank to the bottom,
apart from the hectic human world,
lungs filling up
while his life emptied out,
and the tranquil bosom of the lake
sealing up, like a wound —
reconciling him within its serene silence.
The real horror of his
was that it went on and on and on.