Another Thing I really Like About Billy Collins is His Poetry Isn’t a Damn Mystery.
It’s straight and tells
A story or a scene
Maybe with a bowl of tangerines
Or cereal milk sliding off a spoon.
I hear him walking over hardwood
Floors, a creak slightly sounding
As he warms a hand around a cup a
Tea. A gaze out the window pane.
The window is old, and likely warbles the view
Ever so slightly.
Over time in an old New York Italianate, or an
Iowa farm home, the lite may be intact
Over 150 years
Yet not crisp
Like the autumn leaves that brush up against it.