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.