David Ebenbach
I’m going to write a memoir,
just as soon as I get it together
and start appreciating life.
You know, the beautiful things:
birds, et cetera. Flowers and
what not. When I can hardly
walk a block without stopping,
wading through my own awe
at every blade of earnest grass.
Right now I mostly notice how
the grass breaks the sidewalk
as it forces its way into the open.
Or the way my wife goes allergic
when flowers pop up around us.
Or the bird shit, quite frankly,
that streaks the door of my car
right where my hand wants to go
to close that door. And then
I think about how so many people
have worked so hard to get a car
but don’t have anywhere to go,
and just want to drive around,
and now they’ve got a handful
of excrement, and nobody’s hand
to shake anyway. And that’s why
the memoir has got to wait.