Meditation Yawns

So, I’m sat in a group, meditating,
The guy next to me yawns.
He squeaks around in his wooden chair,
Pulls his sleeves up,
Rubs his arm,
Yawns again.
More chair squeaks.

And again, a yawn –
Wide, quiet,
But clearly audible,
To me,
Like through headphones,
Air rushing into those two lungs.

His stomach rumbles.
Then, another yawn.
I’m serious,
These yawns are coming,
With mere seconds elapsed in between.
Not minutes.

I’m serious,
It’s serial.

More yawns.
More yawns.
More yawns.

“Karlos,” I think out loudly, “you’re body is telling you something.
If you placed a pen in your hand and gave it free range,
It would write ‘Hey – Karlos! Go home, fall into our over-sized settee,
Or go all the way,
Straight up to bed,
And slee-eep.
Slee-eep.’

Listen to yourself,
Don’t yawn,
Incessantly,
Pleeea-se.”

I’m lacking in compassion,
And joy.
My bad.