The Stool in the Kitchen Spoke to Me.

    My ego stepped out for a moment
    Lit its cigarette, spat in the bushes.

    I slid onto the stool in the kitchen and looked out the window.

    Is it possible?
    I could simply be a garden hoe.
    Leaning there, against the shed
    Wooden handle,
    Brand new,
    One day,
    In the spring,
    The gardener may pick me up
    And I will find a purpose
    In weeding the moist earth,
    Making beautiful the garden.

    Then my ego,
    Having stamped out that
    Last burning Marlboro,
    Returns to remind me
    That I believe I am the gardener
    And not simply the tool
    Of a greater genius.


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