Feb 28, 2011

Good Morning, Poetry

Sitting at at table writing a poem beside
one of my favorite poets while there are birds
and birds and birds making birdy noises and
pidgins on the fire escape and, further into the
distance of the window, there is rain falling
and cars driving and more fire escapes and
more pidgins, (I imagine, though I don't see
more pidgins I'm not afraid to speculate). Besides,
who cares if I'm right or wrong or lying or telling
something that is sort of like a truth? It doesn't
matter. In all of New York City there are only
one or two people, and both of us are here. The
rest of the people who aren't real are out there
and they are living their lives or dying or getting
extra attention from a loved one or getting no
attention at all from a loved one or specially
ordering food, asking that the restaurant not use
this or that sauce, or to add such and such cheese,
or to remove a certain vegetable which is unwanted
or produces halitosis. But my favorite poet friend
is also typing but I'm not sure it's a poem. I'm not
sure this is a poem. I just don't know a thing about
poetry, except that it happens, and then, when it's
over with, we either feel more relaxed or more
uptight, or like a colorful bird trying to find it's
way around the corner and back into the bedroom.