On that particular morning,
The summit of his heroism
Was rising, a little late, from bed,
Pulling on sweatpants, padding downstairs,
Making too much coffee,
Playing with his phone.
That was his epic.
That was his Beowulf.
And he did not feel very proud.
“Tomorrow,” he thought,
“I might climb a mountain,
Speak to a beautiful woman,
Put on a button-down shirt.
Today this is all I have in me –
This lounging, hibernating life.”
He poured more coffee.
He looked out the window.
Out there, the burden of the trees
Was white as crystal,
Soft as forgiveness;
The hero forgave himself,
And dreamed.
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