Joe Cottonwood


Today I jogged two and a half miles with my son,
read a book about Hiroshima,
watched a football game on television
(somebody won, somebody lost),
ate a good dinner,
put the kids to bed,
went to a party,
soaked in a hot tub,
got stoned,
walked home,
went to bed,
and here I lie
in a room of wood and glass
under tall trees
on the side of a mountain
beneath chains of stars
built of indifferent

Joe Cottonwood repairs houses that always seem to need fixing and writes poems that, you know.