Poet's Lament

I cannot be the poet of Wordsworth’s
lyrics. Don’t have the observations
of children at the park or relations
to divinity. No longer a pitiless drunk
or self-loathing pervert. Instead, I have
comfort of two cats, a reliable rusty car,
various technologies of this age, the love
of the woman I share a plush queen
bed with. Can poetry be found in
satisfaction?

Perhaps I need to walk around naked,
even if only in my rented house, eat
ice cream with fresh fruit. Watch
more obscure documentaries or Fellini
films. Re-invest in history. Perhaps
I head for the sun, chase the
birds again. Hunt for lizards.

Ah, but there’s the garage to clean
instead. The dishwasher to empty,
the grocery run, the litter box,
the coffee grinder, the laundry, the
the

There’s got to be a poem
in that. A poem for the
moment where I live,
and that should be enough.

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