With blueberries covered in yogurt, I plop down on the sofa, spread
the New York Times on the coffee table and start the drive down
the narrow vertical columns. There’s my usual double-gulped swallow
with the stock market report, a wince at the bombed-out desperation
of a Ukrainian family and after that, a series of man’s inhumanities
to humanity that I briefly skim over.
My purpose is only secondarily to be informed or wallow in sympathy
for a world falling apart, or cheer for something or someone that’s struggling
to stay alive and needs help. Why I really read the paper is to rescue an idea
or two that’s lying there, scoop’em up and lay them out on a plain piece of
paper, then begin their dissection and observation, right there between
the licked spoon and used napkin.
I do this quite often after breakfast, and I’m starting to wonder what price I’ve paid for my love of poetry.