home-vised, deeply-dwelt
within the fourwall confines
of whatever is lucky
to be called inside
or not
we can train a laser beam gaze
on every subtle surface left undusted,
every carpet fiber missvacuumed,
every wall splotch left to fester
like a benign tumor,
and those of us who self-reverentially
call ourselves poets
can train a laser beam gaze
on every cryptic quatrain,
every ambiguous haiku,
every head-scratching sonnet
and actually speak
to the pandemified masses
who have no time for books
and lack the energy for our verses
maybe
we can aim our Cloroxed pens
at the heart of their angst
use language as simple as new-blown wind
for once this century
and become something more
than a pantheon of puppets
pulling our own quivering strings.
to everyone stuck, hyper-local;
maybe poetry can become an escape
for everyone swaddled in anxiety;
maybe poetry can open minds and heal divides
-overcome the stagnancy of segregated beliefs.
maybe poetry can now be helpful.
maybe poetry can become meaningful
maybe poetry can now be relevant.
maybe poetry can offer something magical
to those who cannot find their words,
can break iron yokes of isolation,
convey fantasies of communal transcendence,
maybe poetry can better highlight
the universal personal,
the globally regional, maybe poetry
can suck out the marrow
of this entire quarantined world
and tell a much better story
of where we should be going
-from a to z, scripting panoramas
of distinctive possibility.
