Poem 2/8/2016

I had many facts, and a father and mother who loved me, and a television,
But when it came time to write a poem-
Well, good poets have seldom relied on televisions.
William Blake made no reference to that box whatsoever.
Shakespeare, once or twice at most.

I love poetry, but I fear I cannot write it.
I read a poem, or a friend reads a poem, by a poet in my language or translated,
And for a minute, or five, or twenty, we are not ourselves.
But my poetry is written in a snowglobe.
I have television, and a father and mother who love me-

Ten days from now I shall die, or a year, or ten-
And this is my first poem, which says nothing whatsoever.
I would be lying if I pretended unconcern.
Over there I have a friend working hard for work she sometimes hates.
Over there I have a friend learning just how little he knows about his passions.
Over there my grandma gains and loses- gains physique, falls backward in memory.

Some orchestral piece plays. It is beautiful.
My literal nature shocks me.
And I cannot sleep. To sleep would be a betrayal.
When my parents moved, my father bequeathed me his owl collection.
Pictures and statues.
Even now, two of them judge me, carved as they are with angry-seeming expressions.

What the judgment of the owls is,
I can't begin to guess.