upon reading an interview with a best-selling novelist in our metropolitan daily newspaper
he talks like he writes
and he has a face like a dove, untouched by
a little shiver of horror runs through me as I read
his comfortable assured success.
“I am going to write an important novel next year,” he says.
I skip some paragraphs
but the interview goes on for two and one-half pages
it’s like milk spilled on a tablecloth, it’s as soothing as
talcum powder, it’s the bones of an eaten fish, it’s a damp
stain on a faded necktie, it’s a gathering hum.
the man is very fortunate that he is not standing
in line at a soup kitchen.
this man has no concept of failure because he is
paid so well for it.
I am lying in bed, reading.
I drop the paper to the floor.
then I hear sound.
it is a small fly buzzing.
I watch it flying, circling the room in an irregular
life at last.