It’s not like a poem
to come curl by my feet
on this morning too beautiful
to describe,
though I am looking
and listening
and waiting:
A rooster crows
above the low hum
of morning traffic;
the trash truck
spills air from brakes
and rattles empties into bins;
my neighbor hammers
his endless projects
with meticulous efficiency,
so I try to do the same:
Slowly sipping coffee
from an old mug
with a broken handle
I cast a trusted lure
into a familiar hole
and pull these few drops
of dark, still waters
into my boat.
