Poetry and Porcelain
In the still,
in the dark,
each morning
I practice my art.
While I try to go deep,
the daily mundane
I achieve
approaches the inane.
And if fame
is what I seek to gain
I would do better
to find reality
in another venue,
than continue this
insanity,
so like trying
to rub through a sink's
porcelain with a finger nail.
And yet, in my sink
is a darkened area,
made so by years of
running water.
Proof, perhaps,
that we can
go beyond
the pedestrian.
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