I don’t know why I’m writing this. Wait a minute. Yes I do. I’m writing this because right now I can’t be anything more or less than I am. I don’t feel like making something up, and pretending nothing happened. This is not fiction. Although I wish it was. I am an American. Usually I don’t like to bring that fact into a conversation. I don’t know why. But there it is. I am an American. And a New Yorker. …
As a result of sorting out my piles, I have found a bunch of my old poetry. Most of it is really bad, and should stay in the drawer. I wrote a lot of poetry as a teenager, trying to find my voice, and wondering who might hear mine. Even as an eight year-old I wrote of black roses and thunderstorms and violins at midnight. Getting older didn’t mean I was any less maudlin. But I did begin to write…
