sifting
through the nuts
I’m sitting here on a humid
August Sunday afternoon
sifting through a can of mixed nuts,
wanting to write about
‘sitting on humid afternoons’
and worrying about plagiarizing
writers old and new
who have done similar.
What could I say
that hasn’t been said,
or how could I know
or not know?
Can I be content with
‘I haven’t said it before’
at least on paper,
at least on a Sunday afternoon,
at least not in my underwear
with a mouthful of pecans,
waiting as I seem to be
for evening to fall,
to produce something incomparable,
something so clearly original
that it will make the Planter’s man
tip his top hat, perhaps
even remove his monocle?
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