wane ecstatic

or is it supposed to be wax,
wherefore does the grammar
trap trip you up if only
for a moment you must
remember to pleasure
the words carefully
choose them out of
long lines of ot-
her words. are
you listening,
and/or are you
remembering to
knock twice at
the window for
monumental misery?

the mysteries of poetry
are misery for the average
everyday joe out there now,
listening to the snow accumulate
on the porch roof, the swing over
the beam swings me back and forth
and the thunder sounds - loud - and
the rain begins as a light show
appears, as if just for me.

the dog is a little freaked
out and worried and the
cat doesn't seem to
care at all as
long as there
is food in
the dish.

oh how i wish
the moment was
real and yet it
is only a poetic
image transferred
from my mind to the
so called realtime of
the so called real
world wherein the
boss never comes
in but every
once in a
while he
reminds me
i'm a slob
who can't
write and
can't act
and can't
...anything.

waning ecstatic,
the poem ends on
a sad note,
carried to
infinity.