It is desirable that as little happen as possible.
An aristocrat said this, knowing (I hope) it was hopeless.
sporadically (like clockwork,
unlike clockwork), something
goes thlunk into the pond of you,
and the normal expires.
Your contract/lease/tour/term was up. You moved across town.
The guests departed, or you got a diagnosis.
The new normal feels like fresh linen, a little,
even when bad. The new normal monkeys finically
with the sublives where you dream and mate and work; the new normal tweaks
the way you think about the future, light jazz, incarceration, and vegetable  cream cheese;
about the toupee of dust on the top of the fridge (care, don’t care),
about fixing things or tossing them,
about the relative merits of an enchanted forest and Rantoul in broad daylight.