10/365

It said in a book
I’m reading that writing poetry is brave,
not like the fighting kind,
but the kind that looks
at a horrible situation
and doesn’t crumble.

Making anything
the authors says
assumes there’s a world worth making it for.

He guesses
that making anything
is a hopeful thing to do,
and being hopeful
in a world
of pain
is either crazy or brave.   

I don’t know anything about all that.
I just copied his words from the book
to impress you.

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;—

Copied that too.
Those words have been on constant repeat
in my head
for years-

Always been too lazy to worry about meaning;—

It rained again all day
and the kitten likes to sit by me
as I read,
watch football,
or doomscroll.

I can feel her perfect tiny heart,
rapidly beating in her chest
like a hectic metronome,
two measures behind
a long rest.