Morning poems of trust and waffles
August 5, 2002
My days start with coffee and some time at the typewriter. Yes, typewriter.
I fill a page each day with whatever comes out when I start typing. I put them in a pile and, on special days, I dust them off and give them to you.
I do something that makes me better than you
I live, or have lived, in more interesting places
I work, or have worked, in more interesting jobs
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I know, or have met, more interesting people
That makes me better than you, that means that I talk
And you listen
That means that I’m the one giving the dictation here
You’re the one taking the memo, you go for the coffee
You pick up the dry cleaning
I’m more interesting than you because unlike you
I never bother to ask questions of others, so they don’t get
A chance to be more interesting than me. Who wants that?
I make more money, have more stuff, have seen more movies
I’m more interesting than you
Allow me to elaborate …
Some people claim that “I’m sorry” can be the hardest words to say
Probably because they’ve never had to say these:
“Guilty, Your Honor.”
“I’m afraid we’re out of waffles.”
“No, I don’t mind if you practice the accordion.”
“Which way to the proctology expo?”
“I assumed you turned the curling iron off.”
Today’s poem is about Trust
I have no idea what to write, so I will just trust that the words will come
So … Trust. Here they come, any minute now
I’m trusting. No doubting. Leap and the net will appear, right?
Well, I’m leaping … Geronimo!
Why do people say “Geronimo!” when they jump out of planes?
Why don’t they call out the names of
Other famous Indians during other activities?
Like “Crazy Horse!” while having an orgasm?
Or “Sitting Bull!” when successfully making it through a yellow light?
Like “Chief Seattle!” when closing a merger deal?
Or “Iron Eyes Cody” when finding their car keys, finally?
I’ll tell you why, because there isn’t enough trust in the world
Because if there were, there would be more poems like this
I have to go to certain places in order to do certain things
I have to use trickery and bribery on myself in order to focus
And I have to focus
I have to have other rooms and special chairs and rental spaces
And certain pens and papers and knives and rulers and I have to have
Special pants and shoes and syllables to repeat while wearing them
I have to have to have beverages and snacks and scraps of reminder notes
Or nothing gets done
And if I’m to intentionally do nothing
Well, the list of necessary supplies is longer than you’d ever imagine
Let me set this scene for you
I’m 36 years old, it is a Wednesday morning, summer, around 10 a.m.
I’m lying on the couch, drifting in and out of sleep
I feel a slight obstruction in my nose, so I launch an investigation
Out comes a small booger
I’m 36 years old, on the couch, with a booger on my finger
I’m comfortable, did I mention that I’m really comfortable on this couch?
The light is streaming through the stained-glass window in a divine manner
That kinda reminds me of church
Except – name a church where you can lie on the couch and pick your nose
There are no potted plants – the first place I look for such an emergency –
within arm’s reach
I have no tissue
I toss the booger behind the couch
I don’t wipe it on the couch, that’s gross and immature
I flick it into that nether realm behind the couch
No one goes back there
And I’m confident that it’ll be there in a few months when I vacuum
But for some reason I feel a little bit guilty
I should have taken the initiative to have disposed of my bodily waste
In a manner fitting a person of my age and education
I feel like I should tell my wife of my transgression
I should tell her that I am sorry for what I did
And that it will never happen again
So, in a way, this is a poem about forgiveness
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