I’m sitting here in my conservatory
watching the late afternoon sunlight.
The apples are gleaming in their bowl,
the bubbles rising in the glass of sparkling water
by my side. Somewhere outside birds are calling
in the trees and a light breeze picks up a leaf,
sweeping it across the periphery of my vision.
So I sit here and think to myself: I bet
I can write a poem just like Billy Collins.
I bet I can describe things just like him,
extract the unseen reality from behind this facade
that masquerades as mundanity. My pencil
point is poised to capture the very essence
of humanity in this undulating world.
Suddenly the light turns to dark, the apples
rot in their bowl. (The bowl is glass, by the way.)
I could never write a poem just like Billy Collins.
That’s what the birds were trying to say.
