No poem today, I think.
I think it’s a non-issue,
think it’s a given considering
the circumstances. Considering
those, I think to write a poem —
or anything, really, save a grocery list
or a quick note to the furnace repair
man: it’s so cold I have to
run hot water in all the tubs and dishes
and keep running it until I am warm,
which appears to be never; can you
help me? do you know anyone
who could help?

No poem today, I think.
Instead I should be worrying my way
into total collapse or not quite;
maybe I hang my head in my hands
like I’m looking over
a simple rag fallen to the earth
from a clothesline, try to
drag it forward to a place
unimportant to my view and then
leave it there; maybe I look to see
if anyone’s watching and no one is,
no one is ever; maybe I put my hands down
and leave them there dangling.

If I were to write a poem today, I think
it would have to contain ecstasy
or some other sunshine drug;
I’d have to raise my eyes somehow
toward this damn near cloudless sky
and say it’s fine and dandy, it’s sweet as
raw honey poured over chocolate candy and left
out in a sunny place to get hot and get bugs —
I can’t let that happen, I swear.
Instead I’ll write a list of stuff
I have to pick up next time I’m out —
nails, lettuce, Cokes without sugar at all;
something to eat before bedtime,
something to ease my hunger,
something to get me to sleep.

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