Life always consists of
things which consist of
songs which ring wildly of
you and me, and true; of
lives which would and could have been of
wives and husbands of
husbands and wives, who would of
got us both – mebbe! – wise in time, and of
rhyme you know; and of
all these people and places and spaces of
seen and done, imagine just one could of
been the one that made it all right, of
goddamn course, and coarse …
* Thing is, right now, just this afternoon,
just this minute,
I try to disentangle myself, and I begin
to wonder how in fact it may never happen.
Perhaps the good stuff I am able to do,
outside others’ reach, isn’t
quite good enough, actually, to justify the breach.
There is that: I am just one person
amongst billions, on a planet
amongst billions more.
What right should I reserve for myself to do
what is grand and fab for my art and writing,
if my writing and art ain’t really all that good?
Is it right that I might
disrupt the settled life of wife
and offspring – just so I, as they might say
selfishly I do, can have the time of my life?
Does anyone have that right?
Anyone … ever?