If I could write a poem about what I do every day
I would have to write about the hours that seem to
disappear. Do I sleepwalk?
Or is there some magic door?
Do I pass into another dimension
where I accomplish many miraculous feats?
Then come back here
forgetting where I have been?
Yes, that's it!
I live two lives.
Over there, I am fully
awake and always conscious of all my wonderful,
creative achievements.
But here, I eat breakfast, lunch and dinner,
shower, hum a tune as I brush my teeth,
count to forty when I pee,
and I walk into the den
looking for something,
but find only the cat sitting on my chair
at the desk where I might write a poem.
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