Blind Spot
Nothing of import happened yesterday.
Oh, newly named babies were born somewhere, far away,
and many more unnamed people died in distant lands,
mostly naturally, none directly at my hands.
Some remarkable events occurred, so they say.
Might have been a haboob, a fire, or a monsoon flood,
but nothing happened to me, my friends, my blood.
No matter to me, you see, as in bed I lay,
no matter to me, other peoples' joy or woe.
All that mattered were my plans for the day,
areas to clean, a garden to hoe.
Might have been a new war started, so I heard,
but distant sirens don’t affect me, too busy watching birds.
Nothing of import happened yesterday.
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