once I worked
for an old tired man
whose window framed
a stunning view:
Mount Rainier
in snow-capped glory
awestruck, I pointed it out
he slowly shook his head
that old thing?
he scoffed and sighed
I’ve seen it a million times
I am he
or could be
please let me stay in wonder
the yeasty smell of
fresh baked rolls
the quiet dark of
a winter morn
the warmth of
Etta’s hand in mine
the miracles
I might dismiss
because I’m tired
because I’m old
because I’ve seen them a million times