A Poem About Walking Smith and Morehouse Road

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.”