Minutia

It’s never out of a need to contrive divine inspiration.
I am prompted
By the details, when the details appear

With such intimacy, you feel some slight obligation to
Kiss them afterwards

Simply as a social courtesy.

It’s a word when it’s used

And I wish
I would use that word more often.

It’s a nudge from a poem which flouts tradition
But, with such skill that at a casual glance, you would
Have never known.

It’s never clouds, kittens, or buzzing flies.
It’s the weight of a smaller being’s belly
Resting on your chest.

It’s rows of book spines
When read with a certain cadence
Sound like short lines of poetry.

It’s the face of a stranger in a coffee shop
Reading Monday’s paper on Wednesday
Silently judging you
Wondering if you are writing about them. 

No. Not today.

It’s slush stuck under wheel wells
The smell of an empty house
It’s the click of the alarm clock the second before it sings
It’s the person in the other room
You can’t wait to ask, how their day has been.