I listen to the NPR series
about commuting
on my morning commute
to savor the symmetry.
Today a mother spoke about
her three-hour commute
on a subway, with a toddler,
and the word she used
to describe this time was grateful.
I listened,
as I drove and the sun rose
over the hills and little lakes
of my morning commute,
red sky reflecting me,
ashamed of the petty griping
in my head, of my need to
be prodded, like a toddler,
reminded to say thank you,
to be grateful for this
overflowing world of wonder.
Puff Of Smoke Poems 