Like Most Days

The phone rang, another novel began.
I remembered I was made of simple things
and wondered pointlessly about the dinosaurs.
Otherwise, the day was practical and made of minutes
when nothing happened whatsoever.

The rain fell the way it always had, with no idea
of its significance in stories I had lied about
to make them sound believable. To this
I added names I found in address books
and details of a voice I’d heard by telephone.

Another novel began the way the last had done
and I was sure to write things
slow enough that time seemed plausible
or concluded in a way we all could tolerate.
Besides, I’d made up all the dates and didn’t care

if everything was accurate. I wouldn’t think
too hard about this subtle algebra.
I did the dishes, paid the bills, and went about
the morning chores in an order that obeyed
a certain sensitivity for narrative.

As slowly as a thought through words,
I filled anthologies, and took great pains
to cultivate a unifying style.
Aside from this, the day was limp and full of moments
when I could pretty much say anything. And so, I left

no forwarding address, unplugged appliances, and filled
up Post-it notes with permutations of this little history.
the lights went out like the music from a poem
too consciously constructed, and the phone rang:
another novel began.

Samuel Wronoski grew up in Boston, Massachusetts, and now lives in New York, where he is pursuing his PhD in computer science at the CUNY Graduate Center. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in the journals After the Pause, Fulcrum, and the Boston Compass, among others.

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