a morning thought

His words go on,
of a poet and his songs.
But I am neither here,
nor listening in a consciously
speaking sort of way.
I stare at the glare,
of a turned off television.
It's a window into a window.
The reflections of my peers,
sit inside this vessel
of picture and color--
now turned off to a day
of black bleak and grey thought.
It's as if the reader
of this somber poet
is affecting this television.
Perhaps the words are affecting me.
But I stare--
into the darkness that elimunates light.
A contradiction you could say,
but what magic lives
in the most realistic of things!
I can see the windows,
now in the back of the room.
Cars go by on a sunny day.
Buildings sit and bathe in the light.
But I am here: in this somber room,
in this somber mood, staring at this box
of wasted dreams.

People are now off the topic of poetry,
twiddling their thumbs talking of the Red Sox.
The words are still with me.
Words--they say such insignificant things!
How sometimes they can mean so much more.
Like, the time I heard her say, "I love you, I love you more."