I’m sorry to disappoint,

but it’s business as usual

this fine August morning.

In fact,

nothing of note has really

happened this last decade

of sun-ups,

no Great Pit of Carkoon

has swallowed me while

I write in my briefs

from my modest studio

David the Gnome

would find quite spacious,

a winning lottery ticket

I could easily pay

student loans with

has yet to fall

from the fingers of an angel

and land on a page of poetry

I’m reading,

and I haven’t sensed a beacon

along my delta waves of sleep

signaling there’s a settlement

of survivors somewhere

that needs me to teach

it about the lost art of poetry,

afraid that its own empathy

will dissolve like an Alka-Seltzer

in a glass of water,

and lead to even more incidents

of mass violence if its inhabitants

are not mandated

to read at least a little of it aloud

every day by something

resembling candlelight.