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