The SelfA Poem by Robert RonnowWhat kind of day was it. Clean the house. Notice the full moon. Read a sheaf of old poems. Listen to jazz tunes. Open mail. Refuse to make of it more than it was. What is it for, don't ask. Squirrel or spider your cares are yours to savor, enjoy or fear. Tinnitus of the ear, sinusitis of the nose, bale contriteness of the soul. Moriturus. Consider economy soul's eponymity. The opening canopy panoramic mystery. Neither joyful nor depressed. Not the worst and not the best. I lived, as did my dentist. To the east and west, the self.
© 2015 Robert RonnowAuthor's Note
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