All poems are to some extent derivative:
Other poets, better written rhymes,
Real life, just the things I’ve noticed.
We’re all thinking in the past tense
Or deluded by an conjured future time,
Grasping at falling snow,
Mad rush clutching at the last almond in the bowl
It’s not a representative sample,
All these transient things we choose.
It isn’t fair to all the desultory rest,
The noble, mundane hereness of all the in-between:
This chair I’m sitting on.
The waning moon that looks injured.
That smudged glass holding my wine;
I’ll probably just drink it anyway.
I can’t say that I really mind.
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