Sunday Morning, Reading Poetry

An empty bowl of cereal.
A half-cup of coffee.

A book of poetry titled,
“A Book OfLuminous Things.”

My reading glasses, and
the cat asleep at the far end of the table.

This is Sunday morning
on a day when the machines

keep churning and the masters
use them to plot our crushing.

A branch from the hibiscus
outside the window scratches it

and it cries out. Other than that
I’m fine. Listening to a fellow

speak of his recovery from addiction
on the radio. I close my eyes,

the cat stretches, the evil men
do their work confident of their rightness.

Every little thing contributes
itself to my comfort,

or so it seems to my own
healed safety. I open my eyes;

somewhere a child sobs in fear
and I close my eyes yet again.

What was that book again, that book
of luminous things? It seems

unreal. It seems drunk and unsure.
I open my eyes, shut them, open them

again — this time, against my fear,
I force them to stay open.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T