You might ask me why I don’t 

Put on my wax-oiled jacket with galoshes at dusk to walk about in the rain 

Teleport across blurred coloured light beams of an astral plane in a well-earned nap

Collect washed-up bottles on a far-away beach of gold and black pebbled sand

Brush my typewriter hammers with a worn silver metal brush and replace the ribbon to smell well-cleaned

Go to the cinema projectionist’s booth to listen to the sound of metal sprockets running film onto reels in the flickering light

Have them take me along for the ride and plant a flag on the moon

Sketch lightning bolts and tornados in a black leather notebook with a red ribbon inside

Read all the good books first 

Go around the corner to the tobacconist and buy a vacuum-sealed tin of apricot smoke for my pipe

Sit to write a new equation to help steady astronomy telescopes when pointed at stars in the Southern night sky 

Cook a perfect French omelet with chives and leeks

Assemble a sphere to descend in the black to see rare fish swim past my round lighted window

Call an old friend or lover to say hello 

Or, finally take my decision on which is my favorite fountain pen, ink, and paper 

Nay. Nay. Nay. Not yet.

For now, sitting in this red leather chair suits me just fine.