tuesday
Date: Tue Apr 23, 2002 9:27 am
Subject: tuesday
the poet woke up, one leg at a time, slippered his feet. eventually robed. coffee, good and bitter, in a sweet old cup. morning has broken, and what does he look like, a plumber? so be it. if he must fix things, he will. in simple ways, not too much nonsense, emotion or longing. this piece seems to fit here all right. this other piece is sticking out some but we can ignore that. the parts are good enough, what does it matter that perhaps they were meant for other things. it conducts water, it's plumbing,right?
the fried egg is a little too runny, but returned to the pan, becomes a little too hard. it's difficult to get things just right. one could worry this bit of not-news to death. instead, pass the salt, and what nature doth not provide, lots of pepper will cover. is this good? it's not the breakfast of champions, but we have nothing to prove anymore. we make do.
the poet ambles to the door, to the porch, where the sad sad paper, little more than a leaflet really, contains everything necessary to break a heart. reading between the lines, one finds out context is all. here's what we say, here's what we don't say, here's what we say we aren't going to say anymore. the mourning doves dole out their version, the morning glories peep up expectantly as he walks back in.
here's to finding places. here's to morning. here's to what is and what won't be. here's looking at you, kid.
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