The Church of the Ordinary || Jesse Millner

I want the cure for ordinary

days.  Once I searched for it

in a bottle, drank my way

to oblivion but always woke

up where I’d begun, hung-over,

scraping for seeds in the bird

feeder like all the other lost

souls on Monday morning,

scratching for millet, torturing

the plastic tray that was painted

brown to resemble wood; but

the birds and I were not fooled

and we flew off into the grey

skies of an old city, where 

smoke from a million fires

greyed the horizon. These days

I worship in the church of the ordinary

with its miracles of bright days

and nights so full of stars

my heart cannot contain them–

those stars I loved as a child,

I have found again in old age,

little jeweled and shining creatures

that brightly swarm through history.


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