You begin with some mundane action,

which is not so mundane, of course,

as the poem progresses casually,

like a suburban park’s path,

along an implied narrative’s arc.

Then some fragile moment occurs—

perhaps a squirrel who, startled, stops

mid-path to stare for an instant,

it’s dark eyes questioning your life

before fleeing into the nearby brush.

Then you turn on an epiphany; and,

rising above the path and squirrel

like a Pentecostal dove on fire,

you signal your transcendent virtue

to all those who pause to understand.

So, the poem comes to a cliched close

softly condescending so as to not

offend any who might see themselves

mocked behind any veiled smirks

or metaphor they might find here.

(November 7, 2021)