A fat old man sits and writes at a little table
in his living room for a few hours
nearly every single day:
most Sundays, most holidays, even on
his annual birthday, which he
always assumes will be his last
and therefore whatever he writes that day
will carry special poignancy for others,
even if it’s just a list of grievances,
even if it’s never published and only shared
among the few who knew him.
That fat old man, they’ll say,
shaking their heads before naming him:
he couldn’t get past this even in sickness and
in death. (They will be correct, but then again
he never aspired to be anything, really,
except a poet — not a writer but a poet,
and we all know what cautionary tales they are
at heart,)
Fat old, stupid old man, they’ll say.
Dumb bastard could have done
so much more than dying broke and
insufferably devoted to how to set
complaints to music. Fat old
sickness-sodden man, they’ll say.
He had love and honor
and all the rest of the beauty of the world
to pick from when he wrote
and this is what he left.
The fat old man sits and writes
at his little table, knowing
“fat” and “old” and “man”
and even “poet”
mean nothing, really. He
means nothing either: all that matters
is the light in the tunnel
from here to the shaman’s world,
where the dragons at the far end
of the long hall wait in ecstasy
to welcome travelers upon arrival
and later to bid them grand farewells
when they turn away to go back and speak
of what they’ve seen. You’ll be back,
they say, and this is why he sits
at the little table every day he can
for at least a few hours, even on Sundays,
even on holidays, and will until
he passes.
Dark Matter 