Admittedly—it does feel
a little
bit decadent
and sort of
sumptuously comfortable
by mid-April—
to simply walk
to work
cultivating
in your own—nonetheless
clogged
and tight wheezing breast—this
pure state
of simple
or
breezy admiration—
the kind
with absolutely
none of that sticky
envy stuff attached—
for those
increasingly congested
and
quickening
sounds
of commuter path
birds
that abound these warmer mornings.
That is
to say—
it all just strikes you
as an awful
bit tougher of a slog than yours;
a much
harder gig!
not to mention
such
constant pressure!
to wind-
up
on display out here daily
and—continuously
expected to keep re-
inhaling
and bursting!
over and
over
again—into the goddamn
prettiest—
song you ever heard.
