do not wander off into the unknown

Is this not the poetry in this banal matter - that it is fleeting? Then why would I rather that they write ‘prosaic’ in red across my forehead in order to keep what I know I cannot?

Listen: there’s a hell of a good universe next door; let’s go.  I’ll be the one with the book. Sitting alone. Waiting, thinking: Shall I add this to the list?