Locking Myself out of My Office on a Frosty Morning

Based on a true story

Don’t write a poem about this—
Not everything is significant.
Sometimes you just lock yourself out,
Sitting on the cold doorstep hoping
Someone will let you in soon.
Sometimes there is no great meaning but 
A cold rump, a little shame,
And a minute to gather stray thoughts.
You aren't having a crisis
Or seeing some precious dénouement
Of the story of your life.

But sitting watching the way
Golden leaves fall from a frost-burned elm 
Across your car's cracked windshield,
Or morning light glazes a city 
Doing better than it should,
And smelling the way the cold cleans air,
Transfiguring a moment—
For a moment—to a simpler truth,
How could you not tell of it?
When the world reveals you to yourself
How could you not write it down?