My Morning Commute (for Matthew Zapruder)

Taking a 6 am bus into NYC yesterday for a meeting, I had a copy of Matthew Zapruder's new collection The Pajamaist to keep me company on the ride.  I dozed off after a while - no knock on Zapruder's fine poetry, but a function of the very early hour.  I woke up with a phrase from one of Zapruder's poems in my head and wrote this poem of my own. 



That's how it starts
Poetry is a way
To figure things out loud
(talking yourself back to sleep)
A process undeniable
Playful yet earnest
Drenched in the aroma of youth

Then one day you awake
To discover the universe
Is a lover willing to open
All her silken robes for you
And then what my friend?
No royalty checks to speak of
No platform for either
Publishing or prayer
Just you and your scribbling

Sitting on a rush-hour bus
The road slick in a chill rain
You must have dozed off
Shaking off dreams
Out the window
There's a field of rubble
Amidst the row houses
In middle Queens
And now it seems
Like you still have
A lot of explaining to do
With love diminished
For language games
The fable drinker in the park that's you
Realizes there is barely time left
For speaking the truth