Getting It

Peggy has written her morning poem and I don't get it.

Sometimes she says, that’s good as if not getting it 
is what she’s after but today she says, 
how can you not get it? You’re being too rational.

Yes, I admit it. My mind is looking for threads, connective tissue.

But, getting it, isn’t logical, says she. Let it just wash over you.

I’m soaked and still trying to enter her realm
even if my gain is ill-gotten. Aha, here it is,

an aperture where I can crawl in and be there inside her poem

with the grand piano,  love seat and the woman

with the open button on her blouse,  clues she has dropped

which add up to, I know not what. 

I got it. I got it. I don't got it as in the Mel Brooks movie.

Now I've got it. by George I've got it. 

Her poem is about not knowing what it’s all about,

not unlike this moment when my mind is frazzled worrying

about my daughter even while she is worrying about her cat

but the unworried cat gets it because worry is part of not getting it,

IT being the collage in our heads, the vacancies and scraps,

as if Sherlock's breadcrumbs lead nowhere; elementary my dear

whats-his-name with his deductions that never entered a poem

or could find its way out of life’s maze even if the 4:57 out of

Hammersmith was delayed because of roadwork 
and the tobacco stains on his left hand are clearly 
of a Turkish blend indicating that the killer

must have been right-handed since his wrist was bandaged 
using a knot employed only in Anatolia and now 
if you think you’ve got it you really don’t since life 
doesn’t rhyme nor is it a straight ahead train

of thought which stops at Hammersmith station but instead 
goes to Heisenberg's Uncertainty just like the shadows on the rug

in Peggy's poem and the blue air curling.
______________________________

Here's is Peggy's Poem

                   INDOORS

Clues leave vacancies to give the mind
a chance to wander.  A baby grand,

a love seat, the curtains lifting in and out.

The man, perhaps a philosopher, has entered.
Wings beat as the sound of music drowns
the words forming on his lips.  Another first

has fallen.  Her blouse unbuttoned.
He longs to hear the song she is singing,
but his hand reaches to catch the wind.

She watches the dove, inconsistent as
the curling blue air.  There is a beginning with
thought giving way to the shadows on the rug.