I start the day
thinking of writing a poem
about starting the day.
It begins this thinking at my desk which I sit behind second
having first put on the kettle which lives in the kitchen
a short walk along the hallway from my office where the desk lives.
By the day’s end I am on the couch
which holds sight of both kitchen and office
but by now I am considering different subjects.
We say to live in the moment but it seems I may do that too efficiently
and there are drawbacks to being always beside myself
for It is not idle and easy here in the present.
This immediacy offers no respite when thinking of an unknown friend
whose husband is demented and how I pity them both
yet am unsure which I most resemble.
The horizon of the self is very close.
You cannot control another; control yourself.
Everyone’s got toast.
I am repeatedly interested
in all that one never sees
in the way that things forgotten
might somehow still remain.
One, two and a sickening thud
hit the boy and spill the blood…