I was sitting here…

I was sitting here in my
chair, the thick cushioned chair
where I sit when I write.

Sitting here in my writing chair
thinking about my thoughts,
particularly about how few

my thoughts are at times. I
attribute the scarcity of
thoughts to my day job

and the other mundane cares
of the day. The most culpable
cares are those that create

pressure in my mind and raise
my heart rate. The need for more
money being the most egregious

of the culpable mundane concerns
that pressures me and limits
my thoughts. Still, poetry

can win out over these mundane
matters and even the need for
more money will have to wait.

Just ask any poet.

by Thomas Wigington

3 responses

  1. The charm of this poem has effectively wiped away what it is I might have wished to say about this… …. and what a rather delightfully unexpected touch of irony there is in this awareness ….

    …. and somewhere off in the distance there is glimmer of light that knows this….

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