5:56 p.m. - 2010-03-29
It's not me, babe.
I don't write poetry.
I'm not a dreamer.
Or particularly brave.
Meals on the stove.
Laundry soft from dryer sheets.
Those are the things I know.
I used to want to be cool.
In that beret sort of way.
Instead I can tell you about floor polish.
And Murphy's Oil Soap.
My time is measured in appointments.
Meetings.
How long it takes to hard boil an egg.
I do own a beret.
Two, in fact.
And I wear them sometimes.
To keep my head warm.
I don't write poetry.
Reaching beyond my grasp
Just ain't my way.
I got lost somewhere
Between wine in a box
And a fine cabernet.
I don't write poetry.
Not any more.
Instead I keep my head warm.
7 Wanna talk about it!
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