Hermitage
There are times when I wish
I were mad, so I could get
placed in a sanatorium and scribble
feverishly all the livelong day.
But the chemicals in my brain
seem to swim ok – everything in my life
seems to swim too ok.
I’m jealous of the ones who get locked up –
the ones who can pull a
without breaking a sweat –
lost in poetic reclusivity.
Me? I have to dive
into this pit called life
just to grasp a crumb of soul.
I’d love to be able to know life simply by being –
to know beauty sitting pretty and
alone,
hidden behind drawn curtains.
But that’s not my lot as a poet.
I have to join the ranks,
sift through the heaps of refuse –
grin and look and eavesdrop on all the world:
The dopey dog-walkers my drapes.
The sloppy sidewalk chalk sketches my shutters.
The morning birdsong my shades.
That’s my fortune.
Those are my pickings.
So, world –
what are we going to
write today?
