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5/4/11

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Sitting at a wooden desk in my basement,

Cold and dark, save a light on the wall

And a stream of sunlight sifting through the window,

Pen in hand, held tightly,

Like a knife ready to stab at poetry,

Wherever it may be.

Almond colored wooden panels on the walls,

White tiled floor, two couches,

One below a mound of wrinkled laundry,

And the other empty.

Two pipes run from the floor to the ceiling,

And pierce the room.

An unused television, old and dusty video games,

And white skeletons of poems

Lay buried in the trash.

I look outside, to the world above ground,

And see green stems of plants

Standing in the sun, waiting for something, maybe,

And the lip pink petals of a tulip.

I hear the chatter of birds in the distance

And even the swift flutter of wings,

But I don’t see it –

Might as well take a fat book from the shelf

And read what everybody else has to say about life.

Walt Whitman, wise grandfather,

What wonders have I missed?