We need a new poetry about this

Why do we seldom see a portrait of a youth enjoying his home on Friday night? Why are they all shown with headphones draping from their neck, a signal like no other that their space is contingent? Why do even our own wonderful blogs on domestic contentment never show a man, enjoying peace in his space, restoration in his pursuits, play with his dog? And yet, we do: we love our library on a Friday evening; we can stay up, endlessly. But we who write on Friday night are conscious of that accident that must take place. Godspeed.

I believe we need a new poetry about this. I believe the accident is immanent now, ubiquit-ously pending, and sub-stantially unsuppressed. But it remains accident, we look for. Improbability, we are blindingly blessed to believe in, and endowed to claim. I expect it, too.