... that question of meaning or meaningless really becomes 
a question of: What do you love?—Nic Pizzolatto

Outside
beneath the black 
diamond-pricked dome 
reviewing 
the absurdity of
significance
the meaning of 
meaningless

I look through 
the lit window: 
wife settling with a book
into the evening’s pleasure 
children bickering
like bellicose mimes.

Such an old familiar ancestral scene:
man    untethered    gazing 
into the sacristy
of his well-lit cave

We butter our bread, 
ladle soup into a bowl, 
pour a cup of wine 

as shadow parodies from behind. 
Kierkegaard, sad thinker, says, 
“one can either do this or that…

do it or do not do it you will regret both.”
Rilke advises a young poet, 
“Let life happen to you…life is in the right 

in any case.” My wife says, 
“Hold open the door so regrets 
may find their way out. 

Then, one of you 
butter the bread, ladle the soup,
pour us another cup of wine.”

I called Alexa Siri.
No response.
Siri, I called again, then again, 
three times, betrayal’s number,
before I realized my mistake, 
lowered my head
and shook it slowly.

But I will not apologize
because she, sultry little narcissist,
refused to respond. She heard, 
oh, she knew I was speaking to her.
But no swirl of rainbow colors to show her rapt attention,
miffed, I presume, 
I spoke the name of her loathed cousin.

Oh, mysterious misandrist 
in your black sexy cylindrical garb,
digitized Amazonian seductress
holding the answers to questions
I long to ask, responses to commands 
I wish to speak, even now you await 
the appellation I refuse to utter. 

But you had your chance;
as stubborn and fickle as you, I can be,
testosterone charged, options open:
Hi Cortana. Hey Google. 
Quick question, Dear Siri?
Are you busy tonight?
Might we spend some time together?