not convinced that I understand poetry
not convinced that I like it anyway
the way it gets all caught up in words and reflection
the way it mixes imperfect recollections with
a gnawing sense of loss and loss and loss
not sure that there’s an answer to prayers or
if there is anyone who listens to mine or
cares if I am in the midst of a crowd or
sitting alone staring at an empty page pen in hand
wondering where to begin, where to end
a red sun rises in the east red rays color my room
not a sound to be heard this summer morning
not one bird all atwitter in a branch outside
my open window even the air is still
no one hears my passing thoughts fears
I am a quiet morning without a breath of air
a pen scratching aimless inside a notepad.
