after Paola Capó-García’s, “A poem in Which I use Only Vowels”

A poem in which dinner is made, grudgingly.
A poem in which I go to work.
A poem in which a black bear stalks my neighbor’s so called bear-proof trash
can like clockwork, every Thursday morning, September through November.
A poem in which my tired, broken eyes struggle over even reasonably-sized print
in reasonable light.
A poem in which I answer honestly that poetry isn’t always biographical.
A poem in which the truth is sexier than fabrication.
A poem in which a long married couple still find it in them to dirty the clean
laundry piled on the guest room bed.
A poem in which responsible, fully-clothed parents fold the laundry, mostly their son’s
in the guest room and remember a time when they only had to do laundry once a week.
A poem in which routine is ritual.
A poem in which go, go, go, go is God.
A poem in which there are warts. But that also there is wart remover and duct tape
and mothers and trust in mother’s touch.
A poem in which I am not tired or wired but pleasantly somewhere
in between with my feet up.
A poem in which I relax.
A poem in which there is belief in a vast, fertile valley between fact and fiction.
A poem in which there is only story.