A man stands in a forest car park,He came here for peace.
He brought mindfulness, a towel he forgot, and a brain that will not shut up.

The pool is closed. The towel is missing.
The togs are imagined, a bird sings.
Somewhere a grown man screams into the steering wheel of a station wagon.

Ancient philosophers spoke of the cup overflowing.
These ones speak of the chest gently folding over itself like a wise and patient croissant.

Because depth, is not measured in silence, meditation, or perfect routines.

Depth is measured in small collapses. In failed self-care days.
In forgetting the towel. In sitting in a car park asking and eventually realising:

A man is not defined by the absence of folds.

A man is only as deep as his titty roll.