-Out there on the watery side of Earth-

So, it's true. I snoop-around.

Had I not landed on poem-writing to record

my daily observations, I'd be formally charged

with “invasion of privacy” or at the least
its snotty little cousin, “peeping-tomism."

I snoop-around because poetry insists on my busybodiness.

Between sets, I'll be reading some poems by Tracy K. Smith,

a worthy prize-winner who has returned from her trip to Mars

with her findings in hand.

Admittedly, I've never been to Mars, opting for the shortcut

of mentioning the angry red planet on occasion.

So that makes me lazy, you might say.

So I stay put, that's true.

Nabbed a two-footer with sweet peppers to travel

late last night, and put a six pack in the fridge

for the football games on television this afternoon.

Pre-game banter starts at 6:00 AM, running unopposed

and non-stop to kick-off, scheduled at 1:00 PM.

Meanwhile, the remarkable isolationists

are pumping-out poems, dwelling at the borderlines

of dry anonymity far from the watery side of Earth,

and wait a minute... Listen!

––The dead talk back to me, you know.