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.
Being a poet pays nothing—that’s probably why I also write prudent stories
in TypeScript and Java—and I wrote my very first stanza out of love anyway,
but she just laughed at me—the girl, I mean, not love, as love has no feelings
and will leave you at the first wink of a passing globetrotter so you can learn
some legal jargon and that no one fancies a homebody in this brave new world
of dating algorithms. But I guess I could always become a magician—it worked
for Mrs. Münchgstettner—if it weren’t for my stage fright and the conviction
that nothing the world had to offer I couldn’t find in the free verse and ragtime
reclined on my sofa.
Time flies when you’re having fun, or so they say,
but to be honest, I can’t really call my life fun-filled,
yet five decades have flown by in the blink of an eye
without me even noticing, and now I’m staring
at a white-bearded face looking back from the mirror
and wondering what was the point in laughing
at that kid who thought fifty years was a long time
when I probably have twenty or thirty more to go
and can’t even imagine making it through a week
of family Christmas gatherings.
hidden pilcrow 