The Poet’s Distraction
The flutter in my heart
is a piece of junk.
A new wife appears
in each store, library, house,
cinemaplex, gas station, park.
Settling down is said
with transparent affirmations.
My eyes search with dead law
for a new shot of paradise.
If only I was as obedient as a page,
accepting its awkwardly timed tattoo
with an encouraging dispassion.
But I am the writer!
The page’s humility plays
with my domination.
I need to sleep like a good poem,
resting on its words as if completeness
had a sound.
