By Billy Collins

Why do we bother with the rest of the day,
the swale of the afternoon,
the sudden dip into evening,

then night with his notorious perfumes,
his many-pointed stars?

This is the best—
throwing off the light covers,
feet on the cold floor,
and buzzing around the house on espresso—

maybe a splash of water on the face,
a palmful of vitamins—
but mostly buzzing around the house on espresso,

dictionary and atlas open on the rug,
the typewriter waiting for the key of the head,
a cello on the radio,

and, if necessary, the windows—
trees fifty, a hundred years old
out there,
and the lawn steaming like a horse
in the early morning.

At first, we’re polite.
Swapping “good mornings” in the elevator,
Our closed-lipped smiles playing ping pong.
Reserved demeanors,
Itsy bitsy small talk.
Yet, unintentionally revealing 
Clues about our likes and lives.

Then I’ll make a joke and you’ll laugh.
Or I’ll impulsively comment on something controversial,
Or overly personal,
That just slipped out—I didn’t mean to say that!
Releasing an authentic piece of me into the wild,
And you pick it up and put it in your pocket.
I’ll sigh from relief.

Then I’ll ask you to the movies.
We’ll debate and decide which flick to click over.
Chit chatting through the previews,
Annoying the older gentleman in front of us.
He’ll shush and we’ll giggle.
With every day, we open a little more, like a stubborn jar of jam—
Working to reach the fruit inside.

Then I’ll invite you over for dinner.
You’ll insist I tell you where I got those adorable pillows!
You’ll compliment my taste,
The taste of the meal,
We’ll spill wine and secrets,
Exchange stories and support,
Snapping mental photographs.

Then I’ll call you in the middle of the night.
When my eyes are swollen,
And my heart is broken.
I’ll look ugly and sound crazy,
Coughing up conspiracy theories.
You’ll tell me I’m right and the world is wrong,
And hold up a tissue while I blow with all my strength.

Then you’ll stand before wet, mourning eyes,
And speak the kindest words, because that’s what you do.
You’ll list my strengths using superfluous superlatives,
Blatantly ignoring the times I was selfish, sullen, sour.
Because you always testify on my behalf,
No matter whether I killed a man or ate the last muffin,
Even when you really, really wanted it.

- Elyse Gibson

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting–
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

- Mary Oliver

When I wore ponytails and wanted a pony,
We called it a jungle for a reason.
A metal forest of monkey bars,
Where herds of girls schemed in teams—
Dispatching soldiers onto the battlefield
To sniper boys with kisses—
The original biological warfare.
My favorite part of the jungle,
The back corner where the pavement stopped
And the weeds began,
An oasis—where balls didn’t fly like bombs.
I played on the cusp,
Clinging to the chain link fence, draped in a knot of vines
As tangled as my hair—
Singing to myself,
Smelling honeysuckles.

Even as a boy I was a straightener.

On a long table near my window

I kept a lantern, a spyglass, and my tomahawk.

Never tomahawk, lantern, and spyglass.

Always lantern, spyglass, tomahawk.

You could never tell when you would need them,

but that was the order you would need them in.

On my desk: pencils at attention in a cup,

foreign coins stacked by size.

a photograph of my parents facing me,

and under the blotter with its leather corners,

a note from a girl I was fond of.

These days, it’s the cans of soup in the pantry-

no, not alphabetical, it’s not like that-

just stacked in a pyramid beside

the white candles lying in rows like logs of wax.

And if I can avoid phoning my talkative aunt

on her eighty-something birthday,

or doing my taxes

I will measure with a ruler the space

between the comb and the brush on the dresser,

the distance between shakers of salt and pepper.

And I will devote as much time as it takes

to line up my shoes in the closet

pair by pair, in chronological order

or according to my degree of affection for them

if I can put off having to tell you, dear,

what I really think and what I now must do.

- Billy Collins