And so, at the threshold

of an ordinary Tuesday,

I sit at the laptop,

its keys as familiar 

as a thirty-year-old blanket,

I fortify myself

with black coffee

in the mustard-yellow mug

from Stone Creek in Milwaukee,

and I want to make some

grandiose pronouncement

about how much I love

this wounded wounding world,

but maybe not. Wisdom

lies in the real, in the luminous

particulars of this still-dark

morning, as we call it,

with the lightbulb

humming in the kitchen

and the coffee shining in the mug.