I could’ve been an engineer
not the kind that drives the trains
but the kind that builds them
and the bridges they cross.
Catch me over here,
in my hard yellow hat,
squinting at the pale grey light
on this plastic number machine,
you know, the fancy kind
with all the extra buttons —
sine cosine tangent
and here I go scratching my chin,
wondering if I got it right
as the bridge collapses behind me
sending the train into a ravine
because I wasn't put here to
get it right.
I could’ve been an actor
making a giant mess of a scene
across the stage and the screen
look at me look at me look at me
no seriously. look at me.
I need you to notice what
I’m doing right here,
in this closeup that's too tight
I can no longer hide
behind these words
transcribed from
someone else’s
dream.
I could’ve been a painter,
now that seems truest –
there I am alone in a
sun-streaked room,
Bolero on blast —
rendering my cracked psyche to canvas
like a rorschach
all inky shadow and light.
wait — was that too abstract
or didactic?
either way
I made a mess of the place
and where do I keep all these
bulky supplies —
do you know what storage
costs in New York?
So here I am scribbling,
a scribbler is what I’ve become.
Only took me four decades
round this twisted carousel
to realize that
when I feel the compulsion
to express a thing
I can just scratch it out like an itch,
what I say, is said
and when I'm done,
it's done.
no looking back
no blessings to beseech
no software to upgrade.
now, don’t get me wrong
this is still very important work —
I mean, who else is going to give you
a daily report
on what the squirrels are up to
in my backyard?
I guess the most exciting thing
about this entire craft
is the weightlessness of it —
freedom from all the
reaching and striving
downwards
into the slippery, bottomless
well of arbitrary approval.
that’s all irrelevant here
right here
looking out this kitchen window
at the squirrels
chasing each other's tails up the birch bark
on this warm Spring day,
thank goodness nobody
reads poetry
anyway.