Our squabbling squirrels contend with other noise
But not the kind of sounds that one enjoys—
A loud leaf-blower braying, to name one,
No doubt to be soon followed by a mower
Then after that a Cessna’s passing drone,
A less distressing sound and somewhat lower,
But then the ringing of our telephone.
How everything today seems to conspire
Against the contemplation that I need
To lift my spirit to a realm that’s higher
For my poetical endeavors to succeed.
The best that I can make is this complaint
That may be verse, but poetry it ain’t.