My Ordinary Poem

This
this is my ordinary poem.
The one written
not in times of great conflict
or
overflowing joy.
This poem
is written in a space that
doesn’t feel special.

This is about that old man
in the red hat and glasses
trying to lock his car
but his hands are full of presents
a balloon floats above his head.

The kind of poem that
looks upon an orange cone
sitting on a playground
as if to warn us of
something
but we can’t be sure of what.
I watched as it just came off a child’s head
and I’m willing to bet
the current placement is not accurate.
Of course
danger moved by
curiosity and no consequence
to show us how
we don’t know what’s
really dangerous anymore.

This is the poem I’m not sure
I’ll ever read out loud.
It doesn’t seem to be
coming alive to please me
or to please you
it’s here only for it’s existence.

It’s the quiet one
who never had the chance
to dance
because no one ever taught it
how to move with the music.

This is the poem that
gets written
because I feel
like it’s been too long
though it was only yesterday
that I brought the wind
to life
and recorded its
subtle song.

This is a poem about
those crows
that we label
as bad omens.
They sit in front of me
somewhere hidden in the
branches.
They’ll surely be forgotten
but I’ll remember
their flight once more
when I visit here.

This is a poem for that
tree from yesterday
that I figured was subpar
in relation to that
other tree from yesterday.
There are more words
for it here now
than I could muster in the moment
when I sat under its shade
and determined
it wasn’t poetic enough
for a poetic poem.

This poem
gives that tree
a second chance.
But recollection will
never capture its
trunk
leaves
branches
or how when the wind blew
it too
began to dance.

This poem is to remind me
to be kinder to the trees
that don’t spark
poetry.
They are only here
to grow
and I am only lucky to
bare witness.

This is my ordinary poem
though
I don’t think
there ever was one.