I can't go on, I'll go on . . .
- Samuel Beckett, The Unnamable
You begin the day with edits . . .
The incredulous insist on separate checks
tweaking their counterproposal . . .
You know you can do this, yes? . . .
The tomato plants look surprisingly well . . .
The philosophical watering no doubt . . .
The dryer is beginning to react
to the way you crank out words
and feel sure about the bespoke . . .
Walking through the undergrowth
on the way to the firewood lean-to
in dress shoes is reminiscent
of your college biology field trip
when the professor commented
on your fortitude . . . and more . . .
Then the dream of a woman with two kids
running in the passing lane on a highway
and arriving with time to spare . . .
For what, you ask? . . . This happened
and it happened while you were away
only to resurface with black-capped
chickadees and goldfinches
at the tube feeder with two cats
repositioning themselves
and deer looking on from the woods . . .
How many acts in your next one? . . .
Will there be a costume change?
a script change? Of course there's never
enough time to go on with the makeover . . .
A pint sounds like a plan . . .
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| Craig McDean |