The Mundane

poetry, you are a dilemma of sorts
while i ponder you, ponder your being
for the purpose of such: you are words
set free from necessity but what is
your point? how do you function
when you are so free when i cannot arise
from my bed unless there is a note on my calendar?

but i wonder where and how you can
get off by simplicities, the mundane
and all the like. how can a blueberry bagel
with cream cheese make a poet
immortal? how about this thick black
coffee still sitting in my pot from last night?
i thought you were an escape from coffee
and bagels and a way to make things touchable,
like God and heaven and gyres and those feelings
we all seem to write so much about.

the worms on the sidewalk and the way the rain
drips off of maple leaves is in itself a heaven;
the way this city cries our names over
clouds of hazy must makes the face of God
appear in the stormclouds above; this city bus
is our gyre, moving us to another place
in space and time. the mundane is such an us thing—
but how about when it is a you?

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