A Low Threshold of Victory
“It’s Showtime!”. Your morning announcement
as your feet slither to the floor,
find the old boards with your toes,
stand up and walk.
You grind the beans. Start the coffee.
Steel your soul as you read the news
and send up the first prayer of the day.
This one for you. Prayers for others will come. Later.
You let the cats in and out and in and out again.
Part of the morning ritual,
before you and the woman you love chat,
laugh, ponder as you gather your things
and set out.
It is quiet at the diner where you sit
and stare into space, emptying out,
examining the fallout like treasure,
an archeology of self before you begin
to tap the keys, and write, as curious
as your readers to see what comes out today.
It is manna, the words that come.
You never save. You never prepare,
You wake up and let them come
and what comes, comes,
good, bad, ugly or eloquent,
the only time your filters are abandoned,
and you bleed freely, even to yourself,
overcoming the way you were raised
and the beatings of a misspent adulthood,
overcoming the trauma of a life so outwardly ordinary,
and inwardly shattered that at sixty five
you are still making sense of it all
one word at a time. Each new truth
a victory, a low threshold perhaps,
but it is the one you have
and you are grateful for it.
About this poem.
I started this poem with a title and no idea where it would go.
Poetry really is like Manna for me. I write, trusting the muse for something worthwhile to emerge, but rarely knowing what it will be when I start. Like life, it always surprises.
I’m good with that.
PS: The picture was taken this morning at my favorite diner. It is fuzzy on purpose.