i daydreamt i wrote a great poem about little things,
   like white clouds in the sky before a hurricane,
   like twigs on a redwood tree, needles on a pine,  
   like the crumbs on the table,
   like the tiny little loops that are sewn together to make a rug.

   i daydreamt, i know, because no one ever writes about little things.
   little things like microbes, cleaning up after our messes,
   like the little bit of uranium gone forever every time it divides;
   like the molecules of oil it would take to fix that annoying squeak the door makes,
   like the smallest thing that is still tree as it gets turned into paper.

   i daydreamt, i know, because not only does no one ask these questions,
      the tree isn't once it's cut down or sold; then it's lumber.

   like things like the tiny little balls at the tips of ballpoint pens,
   just swimming in ink all day, but always helping the flow,
   just the same all the time, little ink blots broken up and going past,
   only to dry on a paper, serving no one's wants but the writer's.

   i daydreamt i know, because i'm writing this with a pencil, 

   daydreamt, about little things, like strands of hair,
   like the afterscent of woman's shampoo,
   like holding open doors, like putting the seat down,
   like closing the door when I'm watching sports,

   like anyone would write about that. I daydreamt. I know I did,

   I'm sure, you see, I never write about my girlfriend, she embarasses fast,
   no doubt I've said too much for her taste already,
   yes, she's looking squeamish at me,
   excuse me, i have a pleasure to do.