Poetry

everything is humdrum how we like it
nothing going on here
in the cosmic drama
the trees surround the house and beg
for permission to believe in our enterprize
the remains of other characters on the barbeque
are being smothered in smoke
you will miss the point of my life
missionless decency
unfolding inside a spectator sport
make a place for yourself
among the anonymous multitude
it is said
you can part them like wheat