Poetry should not be reportage, but forever
The mundane craves attention. An empty
Afternoon in the village, after a morning storm,
Then sun before an evening storm. Daughter
Played on the front lawn and porch. A neighbor
Slowly cycling past called out a greeting, “Whatcha
Doing?” “Nothing much.” Daughter experimented
With a toxic, brilliant yellow mushroom, mashing
It for a witch’s potion, then testing which creatures
Were resilient. Ants cared not at all. A few tadpoles
Scooped from the dozens growing in the pool
She maintained for them nibbled the fungus
And seemed energized rather than dismayed.
A sow bug had a more adverse reaction, tumbling
On its back and lying still a few moments
Without rolling into its usual tucked cannonball
Defense, before righting itself and wandering off.
“The fainting pill bug,” daughter called it, trying
Repeatedly to tease her father by offering him
Draughts of her brew. He refused. She took
To playing with black lengths of PVC pipes
Lying beside the greenhouse, narrating
Adventures involving insects and amusement parks.
“Why did we, um . . . Remember?” she asked
Her father. “I don’t know,” he answered,
Teasingly. “I forget why we remembered.”
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