HOW I MAKE THIS
(a writer's lament about where his work goes)
The things on trees are leaves. Without a name,
I do suppose, they'd still be leaves? How I make
this business grow escapes me. Just by showing
up each day, it seems. They've somehow
gerrymandered my time into their own. It's
easier like that, I figure. Why fight the oven
and the blaze when the flames are already soaring?
That man over there - see him? - he's entering his
big, blue car. In his hands is a pizza box. Probably hot,
it's hard for him to maneuver, and get the keys and
open the door. Lots of magical things together : his
solution, as I watch? He puts the pizza box on the
blue car's roof. Should he then forget about it and
drive off, that would be funny - like one of those
cheap sketches on old and barren TV shows.
High above me, as well, is a jet, trailing by - headed
out over the ocean. I'd bet, probably, taking people to
London or Paris. That's Heathrow and Charles de Gaulle,
I think, or maybe Orley. I don't know, and I'll probably
never. That kind of information is like a pizza box I
probably left on the top of some plane somewhere,
and then promptly forgot about as I rode off.
(I hope, wherever it lands, they're hungry).