Power Of Myth

My mum used to say in the measured voice
that she reserved for important life advice:
'If you haven't achieved anything
by eleven o'clock, the day is wasted.'
But this is a myth. There are days, it is true,
when I taste bitter freeze dried coffee
and wish only for the infinite potential
of tomorrow, the new sun through the crack
in the curtains. There are days I squander
the hour before the bars open their doors,
knowing the only decision I need make
is whether to leave at five; I know every person
in the room by name. There are days I sit
in the park, observe the fragile, slender
stems of poppies swaying in the wind, petals
unfurling in slow motion. John Cage said:
'If something is boring after two minutes,
try it for four,' and I do. There are days I wander
the streets of this city, you know you have to look
up to see the real beauty of the buildings. I imagine
I am running over the rooftops high above,
leaping from balcony to balcony, looking for you.