On The Edge Of Shambhala
Leaving the chiropractor’s office
driving through the woods along the Cold River
I wanted to write a poem

Who the hell cares about me and my poem
Certainly not that logger with the chainsaw
or the old shackman
or the students in my classes
or the editors of poetry magazines

“Quiet dignity of artist working alone
        for the sake of art”
No less dignity in eating a bowl of cereal
        if it’s done right
no less than watching the swirled light radiate from
        gold and lavender clouds
brightening the white birch on the hills

Who cares about that either
Me that’s who
About everything

Whoosh, the poem was all over the place
I went home and
fed the cat