Sometimes you don’t need ideas to write poetry. Sometimes you need only look around. The cat. Your wife. Yourself and all three of your healths. Voilà! A poem!
Or as St. Billy of Collins calls it: “The Order of the Day” (hint: the cat comes first because, well, he’s a CAT). I hope it brings you both cheer and nostalgia for the sometimes elusive goals of comfort and order!
The Order of the Day
Billy Collins
A morning after a week of rain
and the sun shot down through the branches
into the tall, bare windows.
The brindled cat rolled over on his back,
and I could hear you in the kitchen
grinding coffee beans into a powder.
Everything seemed especially vivid
because I knew we were all going to die,
first the cat, then you, then me,
then somewhat later the liquefied sun
was the order I was envisioning.
But then again, you never really know.
The cat had a fiercely healthy look,
his coat so bristling and electric
I wondered what you had been feeding him
and what you had been feeding me
as I turned a corner
and beheld you out there on the sunny deck
lost in exercise, running in place,
knees lifted high, skin glistening—
and that toothy, immortal-looking smile of yours.