Looking Back

I argued this morning with Moriarty,

my muse,

an argument I started by implying a desire

that she whisk me ahead to a future time

so’s to ponder in retrospect the vicissitudes

of this portentous year, and what comes after.

Her immediate response was Huh? Why

should you give a shit about...what? What’s

with the big words, anyway? Who in hell

are you trying to impress...ohwaaaitaminute!

You’d better not be putting this conversation

into one of your ridiculous poems! You aren’t,

are you??

Twinning the question marks was my clue

that this was about to become one of our more

revealing exchanges of honest questions and

perfunctory insults, in which I ordinarily

come out with more questions than I had

going in. I knew if I was not careful

she would switch into her sweetie-pie mode

making it impossible for me to quote her

without losing face with my legions of

aficionados who imagine a virile

beret-wearing, macho-dude-type-yet-

sublimely-sensitive, scholastic-scoffing

conveyor of deeply mined insightful

rationalizations. I had to proceed with

prudence.

Nah, just taking notes, Dear. I was just hoping

maybe we could, you know, flutter ahead a tad

beyond the present? Couple, three weeks at most?

Just to see if I’m gonna survive these damned

enzymes or invisible paprika bits, you know, so

I’ll know if I should start going through my

boxes and things, you know, get rid of some,

umm, things, you know?

She told me to stop sniveling (not sure she meant

precisely that word), and, in a sneering tone, asked

what had happened to my grand poetic vision

to look back upon the year…bwaaaahahahaha, and I

weighed her implications with serious intent...and finally said

Yeah, to hell with it. Just a silly whim.

                                                                                                                                     m.d. paust