What can I say about one of Billy Collins’ poems that can’t be said about a book of them? That he is gradually becoming my favorite poet as I read more of his work? That his greatest gift is taking soft, insignificant moments and turning them into iridescent experiences for his readers? That he sees the world so much like I do and yet captures it a thousand times more beautifully?
I wonder how you are going to feel
when you find out
that I wrote this instead of you,
that it was I who got up early
to sit in the kitchen
and mention with a pen
the rain-soaked windows,
the ivy wallpaper,
and the goldfish circling in its bowl.
Go ahead and turn aside,
bite your lip and tear out the page,
but, listen — it was just a matter of time
before one of us…
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