Hello, faithful readers. All two of you are about to witness me doing something very scary for me. Those who know me well know that I write and sometimes what I write is poetry. Or something resembling poetry. But few people have ever seen proof that I do this - I play these cards very, very close to the vest. Like, inside the vest, sewn into the lining like smuggled diamonds. Not that I'm implying my writing can be equated to precious gems.
Okay, I'm stalling. Here goes. This one was inspired by listening to Bill Murray introduce Billy Collins on a cd I have of Collins reading his poetry. I remember we were on our way to Cracker Barrel, just Alex and I, and I wrote it on two index cards after we sat down in the restaurant.
*deep breath* here goes...
The uncompelling buzz of the dryer
Floats through the floorboards.
I linger over a breakfast cobbled from
Last night's pizza and the last freckled banana.
The glossy thud of magazines dropping through the mail slot
Distracts me from nothing.
Oh, there's the mail, I think,
Leaving it where it fell.
And the morning is somehow gone.
Is there time to make it to the cleaners, I wonder
As I sink into the couch's embrace,
Noticing for no good reason that my pajamas
Do not match the upholstery.
And so another Saturday drifts away from
The planned progression of tasks,
That column of boxes along the
Left-hand edge of my life—
Clean house, check;
Inner peace, check—
Instead, I wander through the channels,
More than we need,
More than we can watch, we always say.
I pause at the familiar refrain of a movie
Which seems more at home repeated on this small glass
Than it could have been in any theater,
And as the afternoon sun picks through the undusted air,
I consider the absurdity of a day
Repeating again and again.