When
the day is without surprises, when poetry
leaves
town without even a word of goodbye, when
the
only thing you can bear to read is the recipe
on
the back of the can, when the butcher paper
stinks
of blood, when you no longer have any
stomach
for reality’s game of solitaire because
your
poker face is wearing thin, suddenly it all
changes
with your child’s smile, your lover’s hug,
a
parcel arrives with a first edition, or a new
pair
of slippers caresses your feet, and the tiniest
mirrors
of delight all turn toward you, at once,
so
you are a beautiful creature in the midst of
remembering
Paris streets, walking along the Seine,
the
first time you ate a blood orange, old sagas
accruing
interest in memory’s off-shore accounts,
and
you think, what are these riches? How did I
become
this wealthy? It is enough to make you smile,
to
forget the lingering smell of old coffee wafting
from
the kitchen, the dailiness of fifty plus years,
so
you may enjoy a moment’s mirage, a feeling of
awe,
unbridled wonder, what you might imagine
an
explorer felt a long time ago when first entering
a
cave, lighting a torch and seeing antelope, or perhaps
a
herd of bison, migrating across cavern walls.
the
Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan
