Everything is a choice.
Wake up, or stay in bed.
Assume, or research.
Write a poem,
or eat a pickle spear.
I don’t have to write.
My life is not rigged,
prescribed by some
invisible hand
with a supervisory scrawl.
There’s responsibility,
sure, if people care.
Which I have done
a little research on,
and they do. A few.
Buckle down
and all that.
Sure.
Today I’m content
with a pickle spear.
Tomorrow, the reward
might be letterpress alphabets,
water poured into glasses,
(a vision that exceeds meaning)
or the accusation
that I have no method.
My method is choice.
I have one. I use that.
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Words For People Who Still Read
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2 comments:
What an excellent poem!
Mike, I agree! Thanks for this, Jenny! I want a Claussen dill and I want to write a poem now. ;)
Perhaps I'll pen a poem pertaining to pickles.
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