Poem: When Nothing Else Seems to Matter
The one you supposedly wrote with every choice you made
Good and Bad
And all the others in between, somewhere on the scale, a shade of grey seen in Whistler,
Who studided these things.
Tell your story. Tell your stories.
Keep repeating it. Don’t be scared to repeat your story. Repeat your stories.
Cling to the woman (or women) who loved you
Once. When you were more lovable than you are now,
Old, irrelevant, increasingly creepy. You’re a character in your story.
No longer the hero, but perhaps not a villain, either. Maybe you are what you feared:
Indistinguishable from a billion others, except for your face and maybe your smell,
the stench that defines your putresence from the fellow in Africa whom
You’ll never meet.
The lady in Bosnia who digs potatoes.
The lawyer in the office tower across the street.
Tell your story, or stories. Keep telling them.
They sound good.
Cling to the reassuring fiction that you’ve been right all along, offering the correct diagnosis and the prescient prediction,
Proving, if anything can, that you know something about something.
That should be enough. I will be enough. When will it be enough?
It’s not, of course.
Do you still have a story to tell? Tell it, then. Repeat your stories.
Cling to the myths that make you smile when you’re awake and make you sleep when you pull the covers
Over your bare shoulders.
If it’s meaning your after, you’ve come to the wrong place. But be patient.
Your patience will bring you a slumber so sweet
You won’t remember a thing.