A Poem in Progress

Hemingway may or may not be an angel now, whether or not he's in purgatory for killing himself or not doesn't matter. He's an angel, and he left his muscles here behind him until/unless the apocalypse comes and wipes the literary slate clean. I haven't read him since July, and last night I pick up my collection of his stories and read various ones and then I actually make the effort to write a poem for whatever reason. It's ridiculous. Here's the work in progress:

I limp every other step
from a pain on the top of my left foot,
but I do my best to block it out, looking
off into the distance at the slowly approaching houses.

While I'm looking at something,
I'm looking at nothing,
and while at that moment I'm hardly thinking philosophically--I'm hardly thinking--

I find myself here turning from an annoyance in my left foot to the concept of Nothingness.
I hadn't even considered the lack of pain in my right foot, nor had I noticed the general good health I was experiencing.
I looked at nothing except not thinking about the pain on the top of my left foot.