I think I have fallen out of practice;
I’m just not sure what I’ve fallen out of practice at.
It might have something to do with having expectations—
whether high or low is of little importance—or happy endings
for the audience’s sake.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Will I ever be able to live
up to my autobiography?
The last time I tried, it ended
in a rather embarrassing entanglement
that continues to suck my soul
and wallet dry. But that’s to be expected.
At some point, we all have to deal
with a few surprisingly large numbers,
whether it’s a jackpot, a brief’s tab,
or a boneyard plot digit.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
As a kid, did you ever dream of creating something
unwittingly complicated, like the theory of everything
or a box of matches to light the stake, or practical—
another Antikythera mechanism, for instance—
only to realise years later that no one expected you to
because apparently, nothing beats the nine-to-five
on the way to the golden age? And they may be right,
but you know what? At least you won’t be crying
over pyrite.
Which goes better with afternoon tea—
yellowcake or magpie?
Does a barber make the barbed wire
to crown a wooden head after the March equinox?
What’s my pleasure if you’re welcome
is never yours?
And so you explain the intricacies of English
for forty quid an hour, but truth be told,
the naive questions of a rebooted life novice
wouldn’t pique your curiosity enough
to answer the one he really wants to ask:
Oughtn’t you to be in love?
There is no question that I would like to know the answer to
more than: Why do people have to love people, anyway?
I guess it will remain as much of a mystery now as it was then.
At least spelling is no longer a problem, even for a dyslexic like me.
But I could use a bit of that ‘easy come, easy go’ attitude,
if only to save face—after all, not every hopeless romantic can live
up to the silver screen.
Between Harry’s pecan pie and Sally’s ham sandwich,
I had a square of dark chocolate, and then it came to me
that if he can hide a disappointment and she can fake an orgasm,
I can consider myself lucky—in the end, no one hated me;
they were just indifferent, and though not quite what I expected,
what fun would it be to always know in advance
that love was what you pretended it to be?
If only I had been heartless
and thus never born,
perhaps the photographer would never have taken pictures
of the funeral procession my parents’ wedding was.
I always wondered where those grim faces came from
until one day one of the photos fell out of the album,
and I saw the date written on the back—a quick calculation explained everything.
After all, casarse de penalty, as the Spanish call it, is no cause for celebration,
and that’s about all I know
about love.
Sometimes good things happen
where you least expect them, like when you mix reheated leftover buckwheat groats
with peanut butter—because that’s all you had in the fridge—and discover
that not only is it edible, but it’s actually delicious; or when you read an essay by Mark Twain
with no particular expectations only to notice with amusement that it’s dated
to the early 1990s; or when you open the curtains and pause for a moment, mesmerised
by the dance of light and shadow on the wall of your study, caused by the sunlight
reflecting off the windows of the ramshackle across the street.
Sometimes good things happen
as the trinkets of the day.
If what they say—that nothing is free—is true,
then I have already paid for the antediluvian spelling
that knocked the tome to the floor with the sound
of raindrops on the tree leaves befriending my window.
The plan was to read it aloud, but you’re still afraid
to get on the bus and come here all by yourself,
without an arm to cling to. Perhaps I expected too much.
But I’ll be ready when you are. For now, you could leave
your room, maybe even go to the bus stop, and check
the timetable for Thanatos’ twin.
hidden pilcrow 