I wonder how many cups of tea
Billy Collins has swallowed down
while writing of wallpaper on Sundays;
Sitting on a painted chair
with a small spill of peppermint
floating in an even smaller ocean
surrounded by white.
I wonder if he has ever bothered
to count the number of pots,
the number of baby mint leaves
plucked from their mothers.
I wonder if on Sundays,
the minutes spent pouring and swallowing
can be counted,
or maybe they just float by
in a small ocean
surrounded by white
and blue striped wallpaper.
Author notes
billy collins-esque i think . . . read his book : The Trouble With Poetry
its lovely.
Written January 11th, 2006
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