It's Still Life

The I In It

Last night, I sat on the edge of my bed beside my father, who I suppose I should mention has been dead for a good number of years, and he turned to me and asked, “How are you?” and I said I hadn’t many complaints worthy of mentioning, and I reciprocated, asked him “How are you?” —I don’t recall his answer, but my first thought was that Dad was rather like a saint who talks in parables so he can always say that he’s right, and just to prove me right he said, “You’ll write a few books that only loved ones buy, and you’ll write a lot of poems that will give you a pleasure that others won’t share, plus a few stories of an outlandish fantastical nature.

And then I woke up, or maybe he did, I’m not sure which, and I thought “They don’t like my poetry?”

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