The Diversion

Sometimes breathing becomes incredibly
noticeable, like the neighbor starting
his weed eater at seven in the morning, early
riser that he is, not thinking about anyone else's
agenda, not realizing that the simple act
of pulling a cord attached to a thing which creates
a whole other existence might make all the difference,
not thinking his exertion may be the one thread
that binds all of life together. So you get
pissed off and want to call him up, but your lungs,
hangover and bad dream stop you short. It's not even
a sunny day, not even spring or summer, just a balmy
odd winter morning, three days past the killing frost,
you in your makeshift pajamas--a Dylan t-shirt and black
shorts, pausing in your utter annoyance to realize
that this sound--obnoxious or otherwise--is life,
that you’re still here. The small birds, whose names
you never learned, alight on the naked branches
of the dogwood, the small blessing of morning. You
take the deep breath that refused to come earlier,
throw off the comforter in gratitude for the air moving
now inside and outside your forgiving body, wanting
to scream Glory be, I’m alive!, but you think it’s better
not to push your luck and make such a big deal of things,
so you walk to the kitchen and start the coffee, the way
you do every morning of your weary life, push open
the storm door with your arthritic fingers, make your bleary
eyed trek to the front yard where things feel strangely
different today. You can't resist staring--in awe
of the man and his machine--in mad reckless abandon
as the minutiae of the moment satiates your senses
like no lover or enemy ever could.