Today I woke, and all was clear.
I hitched my pants and went outside.
The lamppost had its head held high
as did the fence and all the plants;
I looked up at the morning sun,
and it, too, it was having fun
dancing yellow light through clouds.
So in I went to my old desk
with normal life front and foremost,
with the quotidian most impressed.
I sat there and tried to write a song
to my beloved wife. I could not,
because she was too especial
as they say in Spanish—tan elegante.
She was such that words about her
would not stay put in normal lines.
I could see the verbs and nouns
stretching out and squeezing through
the edges of the song I wrote.
Felt almost like forbidden love.
Tomorrow I will write a song
about the house, the sky and trees,
make mention of the grass and bees,
then sit on the bench, have a pipe,
grouse about life to passers-by.
For that is how it’s supposed to be.
Not mucho, mucho complicadísimo.