poem of the day 05.02.16

the airplane

or maybe

it’s the daily redundancies

that get us in the end

at the very least they’re crippling at times

walking at the same hour

the same conversations with spouses

over the same issues

the same co-workers mumbling the same salutations

no one wanting to be where they are

but marching in to the same beat of time each day

the head nod to the dude

who pours the morning coffee

who pours the same cup of coffee

for the same dour people

getting on subways or buses

where the monotone operators and drivers

call out the same spots

tell the same people each and every morning

that they don’t have enough cash to ride

or the lunatics

the once blessed lunatics and their unbalanced shtick

what is to be said for the day

when even they become rote and routine?

hell, at times i’ve even made art redundant

the act of creation

that becomes a tired act in and of itself

some days it would be better to stay in bed

than face the same old same old

turn to the side and stare at the curtains

instead of telling someone good morning

listening to the same dog bark across the street

hear the neighbor upstairs make the same noises

have the same wicked politicians tell you the same bullshit

as we continue to fight the same wars

just lay there and rot rather than force down

the same fruit, the same lunch, the same dinner

meals that revolve around evenings in weeks that all seem the same

all of these commonalities

that are enough to drive a person insane

getting stuck with the same person in the elevator

passing that same old codger on the way home

standing in the same queue at the grocery

as the same clerk tells the same story she told  you yesterday

when she dropped your seltzer

the way she always drops your seltzer

and makes that same stupid apologetic face

sitting at the same desk

wishing you were home on the same couch

listening to the same radio station

getting drunk on vodka like you do every night

drinking water from the same metal bottle

as that airplane flies over your head

at the same time every day

on an afternoon that is like any other afternoon

watching it burn fuel in the same white streaks

from the same little window

where the same ugly sun

hangs in the same polluted sky

reflecting off the glass with the same crack

that’s been there for years

blinding you

and watering your same tired old eyes.