On the Radio, a Writer
Describes How Poetry Is the Opposite of Instant Oatmeal
On my morning commute
soil, puddles, corn stalks,
two-hundred-year-old maples, dogs, houses, line of pine trees, yew windbreak,
rutted mud, rusty wheels, fog, pink sky, a man walking a dog, a woman standing
in a driveway, mailboxes
and through them I can already see
blue cubicle, computer screen,
coffee maker, Coffee-mate, struggle, window, notepads, agenda items, folders,
chairs, notes, lists, schedules, flip charts, the need to retreat
but the existence of poetry
smoothes my gritty alone into a
silky alone, paints the man and the dog into a scene by Van Gogh, cheers the
woman in the driveway onto a stage.
