Guess-Work
Sept 2 2009


You imagine yourself
the hero of a novel —
getting the girl,
carrying the plot,
now quite sure how it ends
or when.

Although most days
you feel more like a minor character —
the best friend,
someone the narrator
owes a favour.
Certainly not a play,
all costume and dialogue
sweating under heavy make-up.
Because you’re more a listener, than a talker.
And how to explain
all the witty badinage, the bon mots, the clever send-offs
that came to you
a minute too late.

No, more a short story, I think.
Dropped into the middle of things,
trying to figure out who’s who
what just happened
where the real truth lies.
And some great weight
something unsaid
you won’t know ‘til it ends,
if then.
Which is never does, really;
more a sudden stop,
the unresolved ending
that both maddens and exhilarates you
with its endless possibility.

Just a few close friends
a simple plot
an intense love interest,
as intricate and condensed
as poetry,
as spare as a single idea.
And people whose inner life is guess-work,
often even to themselves.

No, you’re not a novel
with its vast universe
its neat conclusive ending.
More a book
of linked short stories,
where it’s just one damn thing after another —
a cryptic plot
that lets you briefly in,
then carries on without you.