“Your poems are too depressing,
and you’re always complaining.”
“You’re overreacting,” I said,
as I sat staring at the walls
of empty dreams and empty aspirations.
“And you never laugh anymore,
all you do is sit at your typewriter
banging out depressing pieces of poetry,”
she said as I sat staring at my hands
that have never gripped a throat,
never punched a woman,
“I’ve written some humorous poems,”
I tell her.
“Humorous poems! They’re demented,” she screamed,
“Humorous! People broke, and demented,
and drunk, and contemplating suicide,
is not my idea of humour!
I don’t understand you anymore,
don’t you believe in happiness?
the beauty of the sun?
the beauty of a woman’s body?”
“I believe in the beauty of your body,”
I said as I stared at my typewriter
sitting silently on the desk
not hurting anyone but me.
I felt a poem starting in my head,
a poem about the murder of an old woman
in the back alleys of Toronto,
where the homeless kill to survive,
and humanity is lost as dreams fade
and there is no hope, only survival.
She saw me staring at the typewriter
and I could sense her anger.
“Oh no, you’re not! We’re going to go out
and have fun, at least for tonight.”
I sighed and realized that the least
I could do was go out one night with her,
that would hold her off for a few days.
Then it would commence again…
Me and my depression,
her and her frustration,
me and my reclusiveness,
her wanting to be happy.
I’ve given up the dream of being happy,
It wasn’t a realistic dream,
Instead, I dream of being a writer.
The ultimate fool’s dream.
1987