This morning, I made the coffee strong
and I checked off my mental list
of obligations. Three days of rain made
the grass grow something awful
and thought I know the neighbors
and the old biddies on the town council
object, I do not care if the grass grows.
The grass has done nothing to me.
You cannot call me Ishmael;
call me House Hubby instead.
My endless ocean is a carpet
that never looks clean; my dark grimy abyss
the dishes piled in the sink.
And hidden in the thick weeds
that choked out the orange poppies,
there be monsters. Upstairs,
there are stories and poems to be written;
there are newspaper articles to write that someone
somewhere will not like and will
cause others to wonder whether I'm worried
that my address is in the phone book.
There be monsters out there, too,
There be monsters out there, too,
not so hidden, lurking in front of city hall
like wounded wild boars
that would eat their young
rather than wander off to die. They huff
and they puff like some children's story villain;
but it's all for naught; because they cannot stop
the turning of the world. And that turning
is the only obligation I carry with me
into the rest of the day.