Weedy Lot

Look away from story—
Just a person, living
Some kind, some way, of life—

Slice a life into days,
Grab a day to recall,
There’s usually no great

Story to be mined there,
Anymore than random
Chunks of roadside gravel

Will likely toss out fossils,
Bits of diamonds or gold—
Sometimes, yes, then gold rush--

But slice by slice, not much.
If you don’t specify
In advance what’s worth

Finding, what sequences
Are worth writing about,
There’s a lot of world there.