I like them, perhaps,
because they are the world
and everything found within,
the narrator always some omniscient being
I must trust if I wish to be admitted
to the fireside seat and listen
to the stories of epic wars or the tryst
on the Upper East Side.
“It all started over a woman,”
or “The sky was an ominous gray
when the meteor found
the head of an insignificant clerk.”
The only thing better is
“See Jane run. Run Jane.
Run to Spot and then wail in the night
for your demon lover.”
Every sentence is a fork in the road,
a new path that will make me feel
as if my own life might be the subject of a novel
even though the author is unaware of my presence.
We all wish to have our tales told,
If only in an obituary that says,
“He loved his dog and survived his wife.”
Yes, we must all survive our spouses,
for that is how every story begins,
with flesh mounting flesh
before the cleaning is to be done
and the checkbook is balanced
and matters of great or little import
are settled with frowns and long sighs.
I am fairly certain that Helen of Troy
displeased someone in a profound way.
I look out my kitchen window
and see a story. A mountain rises.
Hawks wheel overhead looking for field mice.
A breeze blows and takes my story to the world.