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?