I WROTE THIS POEM THAT MENTIONS FACEBOOK AND AFTER IT GETS PUBLISHED SOMEWHERE I WILL PUT IT ON FACEBOOK AND THEN ONE DAY MY LIFE WILL CHANGE
by gm
Jonathan Ball
Let’s write a fucking poem!
You know what should be in it?
Desperation!
Maybe someone will read this poem!
Maybe someone important will read it,
like the president,
who I heard used to write poems
back in his college days, back
when he had nothing better to do
and his eyes still showed a spark of human life.
Maybe this poem will change my life.
I’ll put it up on Facebook and you will like it,
and then “like” it, and the president will “like” it,
even though he didn’t really like it, it just seemed
like the political thing to do. Then one day, months from now,
when my daughter does her Facebook chores,
she will “like” it and I will finally be happy.
I’m writing this poem on the bus, while missing my daughter.
In the seat next to me, some guy is doing kung fu.
That’s my life. Now it’s in a poem!
Now he’s in the poem, even if he doesn’t want to be.
Poems don’t have time for ethics,
but maybe they are ethics. Or escapes from ethics.
Sit on that one for a while! What are the ethics of a kung fu chop?
I hope he doesn’t lean over to read this screen, and
I don’t have to find out. If all the poets had to write
on buses, because they have three jobs, and have to travel
from job to job, so that they can afford bus fare to travel
between jobs, then we would have less poems.
I mean fewer poems, but also lesser poems.
Lesser poems, about how gardening’s a metaphor for life.
In my garden, there are beets I don’t have time to pick and eat.
I don’t have time, and my wife won’t let me.
She says they will keep just fine. The frost, when it comes,
won’t harm them. She’s sick of eating beets and sick of what they do
to your piss, and anyways (in Winnipeg, we say anyways, not anyway)
why can’t we just pave the garden over and rent it as a parking space
and then buy food instead of growing food?
The store beets are bigger and cheaper and less work.
These garden beets, which I don’t even eat, are just another job.
Actually, it’s her garden and that’s what I say. It’s not a metaphor.
We don’t cotton to metaphors around here, in this poem.
I wish I knew how to react to this. Maybe it’s not enough coffee… Maybe it’s just right, but not enough sleep. Or
Maybe it’s not enough sleep AND not enough coffee. That seems about right. I’ll just leave it at that. Once I started reading I couldn’t stop myself from reading right to the end. I hung on what the next stanza would bring. What’s he gojng to talk be poetic about once he’s off the bus. Will he wax poetic about the leaves in his yard? Hmm. Imagine my surprise when it all came down to a metaphor. Well written, sir. Very enjoyable and I totally wanted a heavy cardigan and some tea at my side to enhance the pleasure of reading. And a fireplace. And maybe some CBC Radio in the background. And some Peek Freans. The Fruit Creme ones. Yes. That would complete the ensemble.
I see my sausage thumbs on this phone got the best of my grammar and spelling and misused words. Yay for autocorrect!!! Please accept my apologies.