(Gadzooks! How I adore English life!)
Homage to Paul Violi
Too often I forget how it begins in the morning and ends
in the early night. I forget
how I love the way I can wake up into a day
and have a cup of coffee
and stare into the greens of a tree's leaves
and because I can't think of anything else to do
have another cup of coffee and congratulate myself
on not being the most dilatory person I know
but by far the most delusional.
How I love the way I can spend an hour
deciding what to have for breakfast, whether
it'll be full and traditional, or
continental and better for the body. Or
might it instead be food for the mind:
Tristram Shandy, or the song of a seagull?
And ought it not also be served by a waitress chewing gum,
and she a morbid blonde?
Indeed, it ought. And I forget how I love the way
the sea breaks and breaks and breaks on the cold gray stones.
I love the poetry of the moment.
