The pen lay flat on my desk
Next to some
trinkets
my old boss, a
poet and publisher,
had mailed me.
I was worried
he had died,
but he
hadn’t. He’d moved.
Why? I don’t know, but he had.
He was cleaning
out his office.
He’d sent me at
least a hundred decks
of those tiny
playing cards
that you used
to get in a gumball
machine in a
globe of clear
plastic. There
were also old
books and
folded
poems. One was wadded
up in a
ball. It came
with a note:
“This is shit;
I give it to you,
not because you
deserve it,
but because we
get shit
thrown at us
now and then.
Remember that
when I’m gone.
‘We all get
shit now and then,
when we least
expect it.’
Knowing that
ahead of time
can make all
the difference.
So can not-knowing
it.
Be safe. Be strong.
Cry as much as
you need to.”
Later, I found
my old boss walking in a parking lot
of an unknown
city.
I thanked him
for the pen,
the trinkets,
especially for
the wadded up and discarded
poem.
He invited me
to his new office
with walls of
rosewood and mahogany.
Somehow, it was
just around the corner.
He wanted me to
write a poem.
I wrote a long
poem about walking
Smith and
Morehouse Road,
though I’ve
never done that—
neither the
walk nor the poem.
It was horrible
and went nowhere,
but I liked it.
He said, “Wad
it up.
Throw it at
someone
who has had crap
come their way
when they least
expected it.
That is life,
and that is
what makes it all worth living
even if you’re
dying.
And of course, we
are all dying.
If you search
through the hundred decks
of cards,
you’ll find two hundred jokers.
They’re to
remind you of all the fools
who don’t get
that—just incase
at the moment
of your greatest despair
you faulter and
forget
and blame instead,
your God,
your universe,
or worst of all,
yourself
instead of life—
that wadded up
ball of crud
that in the
long run unfolds
most
spectacularly with smudges
and tears and
smears
and
occasionally a rupture the size
of the Gulf of
California
into the fabric
of your
being
that crusts
over
hard as steel
so you can
soldier on
in your very
own customized suit
of bent,
mangled armor.
Good luck,
Amigo. Cary on.
I hope your
walk down Smith and Morehouse Road goes better
than your poem
has.”
