On the way in to work this morning I ran into a poet on the street. I knew her from this past winter, when we were at a writers colony together. She asked how my writing was going since I left the colony. I said it wasn’t going. And she shook her head, said Oh, said my name, just looked at me. As if in terrible disappointment.
Yeah, it’s true. I am a disappointment.
The other truth is that I saw her first on the corner and pretended I didn’t see her. I guess the reminder of what my “real life” is was too much and I didn’t want to talk about it, have her ask me the question she asked me, have to admit I really haven’t written since I got home. But she started calling my name, and I had to pretend to be surprised, and I stopped, and chatted, and ending up being late for work.
It could be a good thing, a reminder of what else is out there beyond my everyday existence. Or it could be a reprimand for being so lazy and not working hard enough at what I am supposed to do.
Either way, she walked away, looking healthy, happy, having written I’m sure that very morning. I should say that she is immensely talented. I loved her poems. She continued on east, and I continued on south, and I wonder if I’ll ever be what I keep saying I am.