Monologue

Thank you, but since you

can do precious little or

nothing for my career,

I simply don't have time

for you any more, though

I did lavish my attention

on you long ago, when we

were young, when I believed

that it was only a matter

of time until you could help

me. And, oh, for a while you

did, and I so appreciated

your efforts. But in subsequent

years you have proven to be

a bitter disappointment

to me time and time again

in that regard. Now I don't have

time to acknowledge your

little gifts or invitations,

since the duties of being

myself press upon me so,

though I realize that you

understand that I must go

to the cocktail parties, book

signings, and gallery openings

that might advance my career.

Still, I do remember that we

were such very good friends.

But nothing lasts forever, don't

you understand? People move on.

Surely you must have noticed

that I stopped sending you

my books a long time ago.

It is of some small comfort to me,

of course, that you remain around

to gratify my ego, bur often I

have the feeling that it might be

better for us both if you simply

disappeared. That way I wouldn't

have to think of you at all, the way

that one doesn't experience

a pesky insect that flies around,

buzzing in one's ear its tiny

message about mortality

Bill Zavatsky
The New York Quarterly
Number 62

Copyright © 2006 by The New York Quarterly
Review Foundation
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission.

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