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)