Sunday, November 26, 2006

Ending With a David Ignatow Poem

Has anyone else noticed that I don't write about McChoad anymore? I just noticed it today. The reason I don't write about him is because I don't think about him, at least not in any substantial way. I am a simple person; if I'm thinking it, I write it. I think my confessional filter shut off when I started my existential crisis last year. Actually: filter? What filter? There was never any filter. Which is why my family tries to keep our phone conversations short.

I am so totally single. Single to the point that it doesn't feel weird or awkward anymore to attend the Thanksgiving dinner of my sister's in-laws. I clearly did not belong there, but after quickly acknowledging this fact in my head, I went on to accept a second glass of wine and to eat heartily from an appetizer-laden table, while some gravy-based argument took place in the kitchen. I watched with mild interest as a 9-year-old nephew masticated a child-sized (meaning as large as a child) drumstick. I nodded and smiled when various family members apologized for being so loud and annoying (they're not my family, so I didn't really care). I watched a miniature dog (not mine) wolf down a plateful of Stop and Shop brand stuffing. My sister and I got out of there fairly early, took the train back to my neighborhood and then went and watched totally drunk people attempt to salsa to Pogue covers in an Irish bar the size of my kitchen. It was the kind of day that poets like a lot. There are a lot of those kinds of days here.

Here is the poem. There is no title; it can be found in Facing the Tree:

Where is a rock to bore a hole through?
I need to find a rock to drill
a look through to the other side.
Any rock, any ordinary species.
I'll be happy with a rock.


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