In His Ordinary Self

                Poem was taking a leisurely walk
                through the neighborhood
                while the microwave was cooking 
                his tv dinner.
                His mind had been blank
                all the pleasant May day,
                but now, for some reason, its 
                final, least leaf-sounds
                began fabling to sleep
                through the Tyres of his
                nullity, and a

                lamp
                lamp
                lamp

                said
                said
                said
                said

                two streets away

                near possible traffic.

                Three centuries above it
                a moonful of plantation-light
                centered the rest of the night.

                          * * *