The ordinary things are seldom told–
they seem too plain, unnecessary acts:
to wake, to rise, to make the bed; the old
and boring story of our lives. These facts,
the scrubbing, dusting, toilets that refuse
to remain clean, are not the fodder for
a poem. Even if the witty muse
sent wondrous words about a daily chore
why would a person choose to write them? Why
ignore the splendid for the boring truth?
A reader wouldn’t cheer to read my cry
of “Cleaned the house!” and it would be uncouth
to write of scum and grime and bills to pay;
the ordinary rituals of my day.

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