we can't all be salman rushdie.

I set a high bar.
actually, I found it placed there already,
entering the world as I did
with little more than a whimper.

what lame excuse do you have every day
to not write the great novel
fold your clothes
make toast
breathe?

we can’t all be salman rushdie,
nor martha stewart,
nor the corner cafe cook,
but we can be still somewhat original.

raised in an era desiring so much,
with a dedication to the accumulation of material
and a falsified hope of setting the pace,
perhaps our outlook should dim, a tad.

mine? I know, I know, the meandering words grow tired.
still, the volumes need to be filled,
methinks, if only because it something I can do,
setting aside for a moment I can fold and flip well too.

fame + celebrity + doing good + achievement
I doubt it’s in the minds of those I pass everyday.
the homeless man in the wheelchair at robson,
the tim hortons employees, recently arrived,
the bus driver grumbling over the brake pedal,
the junkies waking up from their squalor,
the students failing to notice the exams don’t really matter,
the commuters content on getting to work five minutes faster.

I don’t know what is on their minds.
still, something tells me,
they don’t lie awake at night,
hoping to write like salman rushdie can.