Morning Poem

The Poetics of Survival

by Erica Mazzeo

the poetics of survival

are not trite.

Nor are they deep seeded,

or inflated feats involving

courage, rope, muscles and

damsels.

The poetics of survival

make their way to my

kitchen table some days -

like an old friend,

they appear

to sit and sip coffee with.

We don't talk politics,

"there is really nothing less

related to survival"

the poetics insist.

I giggle at this notion.

"Then what is the true poetry of survival?" I ask.

Selfishly thrusting out the most

obvious of curiosities.

"I'm not 100 percent sure but I know

it involves table manners" the poetics

respond.

I shrug

take my napkin off my lap

to place it

back on

the

table top.

It's funny each time we meet I

feel I have learned less and

less about

how to exist,

how to hold my breath under water,

to survive pirate attacks,

cooking mishaps,

family wars -

how to cope.

I makes me wonder if all

I've really indulged in

is the poetics' own lessons

on their survival,

how they experience their

existence,

strange.

Strange,

but i'm not really surprised.

Relieved when they don't come

around for days at a time.

I'm forced to draw my own conclusions,

keep the

fortress under control and

be the inner

in inner sanctuary,

the ex

in extrovert.

I nod and laugh again to myself,

pick up a slice of toast

with both hands and take a bite.

All the while knowing the

poetics will be back in a day or so,

and I will listen and nod

and pour us both

a glass of juice.