Humanity & Poetry: My Ordinary Day

My day to day is generally
Fairly ordinary
I come; I go; Sometimes I stay a while
           in between.
Perhaps because I'm a writer, though
I see instances of poetry
In my ordinary day—
Not that perfect letter poetry
As might flow from the soul
          of one more literary than I,
But a style of poetry with a different soul
          and a life of its own.

I awaken most days
To a wet nose or furry tail
Tickling my cheek.
Then a musical "Good Morning, Mommy"
Follows soon after.
Through a rush of hair brushing
          and shoe finding
          and and the gathering of essentials
I move in routine to the soundtrack
          of a groggy cat
          and an impatient little boy.
And in those moments,
My movements make rhythmic poetry.



A drive through town
With child safely buckled beside me
Reveals the world through eyes not my own,
          eyes of inquiring innocence.
Where that truck's going?  Or...
Why the arrow light's not green?  Or...
Why that man's walking by the road?
His first awareness of our surrounding society,
          and I have the awesome task of
          teaching him
          to view those we see with an open heart.
And in those moments,
His inquiries form lines of childlike poetry.

And now, of late,
The Interstate
Has become a path often traveled
Once in the morning
          then back again in the afternoon.
I cannot help watch in wonder
At the spectacle of the mass of cars
          changing lanes,
           merging,
           weaving,
           entering and exiting.
It amazes me how, without a single
            instance of communication,
Everyone merges, and enters and exits,
With the fluidity of assumed courtesy.
I delight in the unspoken camaraderie shared
           by two drivers
           in two cars
           who have teamed up, matching pace,
           to thwart the efforts
           of that jerk in the hotrod who "needs" to get there
           ten seconds faster.
And in those moments,
I watch the ballet-like poetry of the open roads.

Days at work, some good - some.....not,
Most days I leave, feeling satisfied
           that I have done a good job.
Watching students in the hallway—
            as cars on the interstate—
            with the same flow of travel,
Everything is an emergency...
            except arriving in class on time.
            Angst abounds.  "Love" is the priority.
The boys constantly posturing,
Showing off their imagined machismo.
The girls fairly oblivious, far too busy
Learning to cope with womanly bodies;
Simultaneously hugging one another
           and stabbing each other in the backs.
Hating each other...hating themselves.
And the female teachers aren't much better
            some days.  All grown up.
            No longer little girls.
            Just big girls with small minds.
Yet somehow the school environment,
            stuffed with contradictory attitudes,
            flourishes.
And in those moments,
My day's poem is dark, tumultuous, and filled
            with the passion of an army
            of underpaid pedagogues.

The end of my day is a reversal of the start.
            Leave work.
            Interstate.
            Drive home answering one innocent inquiry after another.
            Prepare a meal for a groggy cat and impatient little boy.
           Through a rush of tooth brushing
                    and pajama finding
                    and and the gathering of teddy bears
            "Good night, Mommy. I love you."
            Then fall asleep with a wet nose or a furry tail
                    tickling my cheek.
And every day—as every poem—must have an end.

For you see, poetry is found not only in the words
             of Shakespeare, or Bierce, or Millay, or Tennyson.
Poetry is not always melodic,
             does not always rhyme,
             can have any meter or none, any rhythm or none.
Poetry is borne of humanity,
             and humanity is inescapable.
             It surrounds us;
             it engulfs us.
Each moment a syllable,
             each hour a line,
             each day a stanza,
              each lifetime a poem.
Each person a poet, still writing,
              still working to complete
              their life's masterpiece.