Turning Away from the Quotidian

Trucks are passing on the highway half a mile
West of here. No one's at the house next door.
That's strange. Somebody's always there, some
Maids, a carpenter, a plumber, people working
On the yard. Across the river, frozen still,
Whoever tends the fields which spread, now
Fallow, out to reach the highway cuts down
Trees. I hear the saw and see a tractor hauling
Wood. A day of mundane goings on, the sorts
Of things which living creatures do to keep
Themselves alive. I wonder if someone is
Singing, if a painter's dabbing at what's meant
To be a masterpiece. I do know that, in one
Hushed room, inside a house which, from
The outside, seems so unattended as the one
Which is next door, another type of artist works,
A poet, who has turned his back
To mundane goings on.




Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 26 times
Written on 2022-01-13 at 22:21

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MetaPoetics The PoetBay support member heart!
Turning away from the quotidian to write the quotidian? I like the irony of the situation you've presented in the poem!
2022-01-14