A List of Sorts

And so they told me
once again
that it will not count for much,
that all the words
will blend together,
and everyone's
a poet
these days. She suggests
that I seek some sort
of solace
in the fact that I am not the first,
will not be the last (It's a matter
of mind over matter,
mind you) she says
knowledgably.

With every morning
she clips her coupons
drinks stale coffee
scribbles neatly
eggs
bread
milk;
I rip the slings and
arrows
from the local newspaper,
fire back.

I rifle through the files
of trifling nostalgia,
the stray birthday card
whose sole purpose it is
to obscure legal documents
birth certificates
licenses
passports;
in search of a pen
I dig up a poem,
a sad story in verse
of small romances
she recorded.
I sigh and swear
never to become
eggs
bread
milk.