I told her, in plain language, how I felt.
And by that I mean I mumbled a poorly
paraphrased and already cryptic passage
from one of Yeats’s later poems.
When she asked, “What was that?” I said, “Nothing.
Nothing. It doesn't matter.” It mattered,
of course. “Ma vie est usée. Allons, feignons ... ”
On second thought, it doesn't matter at all.
The fuel in the sun is finite. It must be.
But I guess I won’t think that in L.A.
I’m inattentive the way a husband is —
confident there’s always tomorrow.
Warm July wind in the downtown square
where the U.S. bible industry’s located.
Your hair blowing about, not saying much,
the last time someone seemed happy to see me.
David McGimpsey, “71, Song for a Silent Treatment.” from Li’l Bastard. Copyright © 2011 by David McGimpsey. Reprinted by permission of Coach House Books.
Source: Li’l Bastard (Coach House Books, 2011)