struggling mites of the planet

standing in the shower

this morning

i saw a spider die fighting

against the current of water

and i thought to myself

i could write a few lines for that lost arachnid

his own rime of the ancient mariner

an ode to the minutiae

the miniscule struggling mites of the planet

but what’s the fucking point of flowery conjecture

regarding what does and doesn’t matter

i can’t save him with words

or write an appropriate memorial

nor can i save

a gassed syrian baby

or a woman standing

in the way of an exploding madman panel truck

the waning poet in me cries out for a god

who stood us up

who split with our luggage

who never checked in

at the hotel airport

yeah, i could write a poem

if i remembered

what a poet is

what’s more poetic

than a poet

who doesn’t

feel like a poet

anymore