Drowsy Day's Buzzings

Bees. Peaceful enough bees, these thought in my head.
I can’t write a poem a day…Roadl Dahl works from 10 to noon. He has written tons!
I should be able to do that…and write one stinkin’ poem.
I’m tapped out…nothing new, fresh, comical. Nothing interesting. Nothing universally appealing. Just drowsy bees and a smigde of anxiety. I need a poem.
Nothing poetic about today.
Normal,
commonplace,
daily grind,
sun up,
windy day,
buzzing flies,
flying birds,
traffic noises.
Make soup,
invent a name for it: Refrigerator Soup.
Yep, like no one’s thought of that one before.
Mow the lawn,
chat with the neighbor,
find out the cat houses have been decatted or at least cat numbers have been thinned.
Enjoy the sunflowers,
Feed the toad a fly,
Feel winter coming on by watching the flies pile on in the house, the car, the garage.
Think about needing a poem.
Think about published poets. Did Bill Holm write about everyday things because Leo Dengel led him down that road? Or, did they coexist alongside each other and evolve separately even though they were colleagues? Why do these questions come up when the people aren’t really around to answer the questions. Yeah, that’d be too easy…asking ol’ Bill that question.
I could not really speak to him. He was like a god to me. His brain was so far above mine, I could have been an ant crawling around on a gladiola flower.
If we can call this a poem, I guess I’m good for today.