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What is my am I?

What is my am I?
What is the much of me?

Matt’s a salesman who loves
the money and loves all the plaques
displayed on his wall, all lacquered brown
“Salesman of the year” and such
They say: “Extra special person!
You’ve done it! Exponential
team player! Well done!”

There’s no divine compensation
No otherworldly ledger

The big blow was Dad’s death
How could that happen?
How could Dad die?
What kind of God lets that happen?
What kind of world is this anyway,
that my Dad could die?
I cried and cried and cried

As long as that man breathes
he has a job here

I sleep with the fan on
even in winter—
the monotonous whir of its
white plastic blades like
the consolation found in a few
grey drops of rain that cut and
curb the sun’s glare

What makes you continue?
Did it start well? 

Howard performed his songs
at the pub and was given for free
spaghetti in white clam sauce
Clam sauce stains his t-shirt
as he heartily plays his guitar
Maurice would scoff at those
who’d say “There are no words”

We were moved in the pub
whenever Howard played 

Where there were leaves
there’s only bare branches, bare
sticks that protrude from skinless trees
like some small-time hustler
who hurt Matt’s feelings—
feelings so ideal, sort of ideal
so little time for this mark

This one short life,
the much of it

 

 

-January 14, 2017-