The grave digger

Perhaps the wine
causing me to slip
soundly to sleep
with no midnight stirring
no bathroom visit
or waking dream state
is to blame
for the lack of musings
this morning

Or perhaps
my inability
to pull the beauty
of the outside world
in, through the sealed windows
of the morning boxcar
is just the tragedy
that strikes
unassuming artisans
everywhere

If I were a baker, perchance
I could dream up a glorious loaf
while sitting right here
on this vinyl seat;
the shades of shiraz and ripe blueberry
inspiring me to make
a wonderfully spun tract
of sticky starts
thus rising into something divine
something to be shared
a thing for the soul

But, alas
I am not a baker
not today
the shapes that pass by me
much slower than the speed of light
but too fast to catch
will go unappreciated
they all look the same
in a book, on a postcard
across the spans of these windows -
today I pour concrete
or paint the hallways eggshell
which is fine
because some days
we dig graves
and maybe today nothing
is better than something
--
4.30.10