A poem a day each April, for Katya the Poet's Dew Drop Inn |
O I love my little choices, whether unimpeded or as mere illusion: rye toast over wheat, fresh marmalade instead of store-bought jam I buy cream-colored curtains, leave the paisley red ones on a shelf reject urgent messages from media, instead a brief perusal of news renewing friendships from past places, allowing some to fall away; the space after your unkind remark in which I shape my reaction or my rushed & angry answer, instant & without the briefest pause; the poem I could have written here, gone to naught before begun the man I could have married, dead, or lost to me across the world other parents to adopt me after my abandonment as bastard babe (might have raised me to be kinder, might have raised me to concur) on this couch in this brick house on this street in this pretty little city; could I have chosen other circumstances or another place or time in which to sit, deciding, whether to write this using form, or rhyme? I let the questions lie unanswered, let the mysteries be as they are content with pepper on my pizza and a wink upon my morning star. note ▼ |