Okay, I confess—for years now, I've
been selfish-
ly keeping my
thoughts to myself
in order to write them
down on paper and pitch them
at you later—as if: mine
were the one true point of view
and a short, well organized poem
was the highest possible
peak you could climb;
the perspective from nowhere,
and as such, the only one
you could trust; the dead center
of the universe—something much
more usefully observed than discussed.
Earlier this morning, for instance,
I carefully reasoned
that today was the perfect
day for sweatpants; then wandered over
and wondered into the bathroom mirror
whether I could ever get away with
an authentic handlebar mustache;
then, in the kitchen, carefully weighed
all my coffee grounds
out to the decigram; and finally—
endeavored to imagine
just what it could look like
if I rearranged all
the furniture in the living room,
before deciding I felt a little too
uninspired to bother.
