Clean Windows

Clean Windows

I hadn’t chalked it in my pocket

planner—existential crisis: 8am—

but plans, I’ve come to find, are quite 

subservient to present things. 

A pinch of pepper on my eggs, 

some salt, and then does God exist?,

as if I needed that to wash  

it down, as if one has 

to reason out this kind of thing

before the second cup 

of coffee. No, unwanted wondering 

is not a trait I’m proud to keep

sustained inside, but as it seems

that we are at a tipping point of sorts,

the point where cutting clean

the canker kills the tree, I’ll learn 

to coexist with it the best

I can, if flustered at the circumstance.

For sake of clarity, it’s most

like opening the door to start

your day when in comes clambering

an addled bird to flip chaotically about

your kitchen, forcing you to either

kill it, hide behind the couch, 

or simply let it flap about for long

enough that it eventually will find

the airy opening. It tends to leave

you frazzled, yes, but somehow still alive.

Or maybe clearer still I am

the bird itself, confused as to

the nature of this false environment,

and with a pounding headache asking out.