I’m thinking this morning about Billy Collins
writing in a roundabout way
that a poet’s major qualification
is the ability to stare out a window
actively for hours, observing
peonies bobbing their big pink heads,
the fawn’s mama chasing a stray cat,
or the garbage truck grinding by the driveway
like a tank in which someone
left a dead fish under the seat as a prank.
I used to believe that was the sort of poet I’d be,
watching the shirtless neighbor mowing his lawn &
wondering if aliens on other worlds
keep grasses that need trimmed.
Instead, I’m a poet who stares through
windows of my compact Ford
as it rolls along on its way home,
or stalls, stuck in traffic.
Left, right, straight ahead—I look,
noting rows of candy corn
where the road has been closed for construction,
a collision, or some minor disaster
like today when a tractor trailer jackknifed
in a slick curve, spilling acetone
over the highway & city street below.