Some days I get up to go for a run
but instead just sit in spandex
and write about the fog.
Is the fog lifting or the trees rising?
Who cares. Nature transfers her blood
into the air. We are her lung cancer.
Her trans fat. Her addiction.
Some days I get up early to write
but instead clean–the great lie
that I am doing something.
The horrible way ketchup keeps, still bright;
beer cans lined up on the porch railing.
It is the end of the summer.
The insects are at their biggest.
They bang and thrum against the screens,
maniacs, giving their last hurrah.
I creep around like Nancy Drew
with my hunch and no real proof.
All things feel preordained, repeated.
My body is numb. Without anticipation.
I sit in the lobby of someone else’s potential
thinking it is my own.
I go about my day
convinced I am immortal.
Poems of the Everyday
visually descriptive or figurative language, especially in a literary work
a comparison between two unrelated things through a shared characteristic
the attribution of human qualities to a non-human thing
a comparison between two unlike things using the words “like” or “as”