Monday, May 2, 2016

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.


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