This is a Toast

So, this is a poem I hand wrote Morgan and left on the seat of the car for her to find after a particularly trying set of days.  I am including the original preface here for context sake...

     When I was in high school and college I would write toast poems, usually dedicated to being alone and doing whatever I wanted while listening to cds in my underwear and drinking diet coke or grape soda.  A few key details in my life have changed since then...


As I sit with a cup of tea
black as a cloud Portland Night
       after a drunk takes out the power lines,
       answering the question
       of how hard a bike can hit a pole....
              Don't worry, he's ok. 
              He jumped off
              and landed on a stray cat
              who he will take home
               and walk on a leash.
       Doesn't matter...
      It's just a metaphor for how dark my tea is.
As I sit with said tea
I make a silent toast
because the tea house
 is crowded with people
inhabiting overlapping universes.

This is a toast to digressions
and finding it impossible to focus

This is a toast to us catching
the mental capacity and maturity
of a 2-year-old as if these things were
childhood disease,
just when it comes time to make dinner.

This is a toast to never appreciating
my pillow so much.

A toast to impatience and impulse
and attempting to plan ahead.

This is a toast to lazy dogs
dirty cats, hardwood floors,
good wine, buckets, choo choos,
owning a laundry machine,
and being a toddler rosetta stone.

This is a toast to you and me and the monster
that sleeps in the room next door and the endless number
of possibilities
but being content with just a hand squeeze,
a beer,
a song,
and falling the fuck asleep.

Cheers.