Another Ordinary Evening

Sometimes he caught himself wondering
If the world he lived in really was
An invention, with him the only

Paying customer, somewhere out there
In the dark of another cosmos,
Somewhere you could order up a world

Just to live through the simulation—
And then he would ask himself, but why?
Isn’t this preposterous enough

Without solipsism and nonsense
Proposing entire alternate worlds
Unimagined and unevidenced?

It always came back to the same thing,
Manifestly not only for him—
Being feels like weirdness. Mere being

Feels preposterously alien
For no other reason than it does,
And strangest when most ordinary.