Sometimes I stand in the middle of the floor,
Not going left, not going right.
I like to get drunk and I like to write.
I search for ways in and canít find them,
But that doesnít mean theyíre not there. What isnít
There is the life between the words, the life that existed
Beyond the words, the life I donít have anymore.
In Michigan the feelings soaked the page,
Yet now they seem diminished in the telling
And no longer in our time, no longer of our place,
But in another country, one of an imagination
Anchored in a style; no longer in the stream
Or swamp, where the fishing was tragic.
I (whichever I this is) saw Follies last year.
The Weismann Girls come back to stand for what they were
And arenít anymore, in a theatre slated for demolition.
Sally is a prisoner of her rage and her imagination,
Pining for the magic of what might have been
Until the spell breaks, leaving her alone on the stage
Amid the shards of her illusions. As she looks around
For what she is, all she can find is her age:
ďIím forty-nine. Thatís all I am.Ē
Why do I get so angry? Why do I assume
The characters I love, the characters I love and hate?
Thereís a corruption from which Iíve never recovered
That diminishes me each day, until I canít tell which I am
Anymore, the mask or the face. The boat in Havana:
Last time was the last time. The stirring begins each night
And continues through the day here in a home that isnít home,
With Michigan far away, the finca far away, alone
In the vestibule in the early morning light, imagining
The feeling of cool steel against my forehead
And the sound of two drawers slamming.
Iím sixty-two. Thatís all I am.
About this poem:
"I was reading an interesting book called Hemingway's Boat by Paul Hendrickson around the same time I saw a revival of Stephen Sondheim's Follies on Broadway. My way of writing is basically associative, and Hemingway and Sondheim's character Sally seemed to me pathetic and heartbreaking in different ways, and I would up putting them together in this poem.