After his late Sunday breakfast with papers,
The poet is resting like a cat in the sun.
All the world is going to hell, and a single word
Buzzes at his inner ear, but what it is
He’s not quite clear. He has to close his eyes
And feel the heat pushing at thin lids
Insisting that he articulate, clearly.
Like a flower pollinated, it must be.
Instead, retreat sluices through the pores,
Immunity is offered and accepted.
The call for the uncaught word is ceased.
And, diminishing, he is taken, glad,
To complete the sentence of the day.
He is I and thou, traffic drone, and shadow.