What matters to me is pigeons Even and perhaps especially, angrily The ones with missing toes or stumps for feet The second avenue seagull and knowing that That bird landing on the Arno is a heron Or an egret or a stork, is a stork just a white heron? And I don’t mind not knowing Which bird that bird is or what a stork is, It matters to me that I tell you To look at the moon, clouds, changing trees And less so that you do. The sun rises in the east and sets in the west and Soon Orion will be back hanging in the sky like a guarantee And for millions more years again after I care about bars of soap, self sacrifice, using enough salt. I care about rocks and its fine if they’re cracked open, But I care not for discovering the secrets of the universe I don’t worry about being wronged, wrong me, Wrong me, as I care about having an occasion to rise to I care about not caring about being wronged. I don’t care if my jeans fit, Though they usually do. I don’t care if I’m right, Though I suspect that I am— Right, that is, about the things that matter, Which as I’ve outlined, are pigeons, only sort of knowing things, And bar soap.
What a wonderful poem