He lay back, hands
behind his head, certain
of so much in this
unguarded moment.
he and the dog,
similarly assured and
quite comfortable with
their lots in life.
A winter afternoon thru
curtain sheers,
an illuminated poet
with pet, his socks
white as the truth
of the dog’s white.
The lamp behind his head
was not needed with
this much light, this
much momentousness
of being.
Elsewhere
on his red t-shirt
a blue monster
gobbled chocolate chips
and spoke of a world
of action and desire,
the madding nature
of consumption
and satiety, chaos,
and what it was like
‘to let loose’ and be
free quite differently.
In the end, there were
just moments and choices–
some way more simpler
than others–of
peace and contentment
with one’s ownlife and
the slow afternoon
drift of all things.
…………………………
“The poet does not think of himself as making his poems. He thinks of himself as a place where poems happen.”–Northrop Frye, “Reconsidering Levels of Meaning”