This Poem will be Plain

It will contemplate the sunlight
presently falling into the room,
lighting the dust on the table.
It will address the fact that
little is happening,
and it will not use words
like ‘entwine’ or ‘wherewithal’.
It will do nothing to explain
the unread books on the dresser,
or to excuse the clothes on the floor.
It will prevent acknowledgment
of the peach I ate this morning,
and the piece I gave to you.
It will further no theory on
the nature of your hair,
and the way it looks in this light.
It will remain neutral in tone,
and will not push out the window in a
nod to waxwing song.
It will attempt a clear position,
and will climb from its failure.

This poem will be plain,
and will not comment
on sunspots or eyelashes.
Typed, it may be folded and carried,
removed in quiet moments by soft hands.
And should it be spoken,
should it find kind ears and minds,
may its adornment be excused,
its philosophy left.
May it be enjoyed for precisely
the time it takes to hear.