more than most of us
the agent has just agreed
to take my wife’s book
and we were sitting on the couch
having a drink
“he said i do an outline and then
rewrites, and then hopefully we sell
the thing and sit back and get rich,”
she said. “can you imagine it?
a book. a writing career. actual money.
no more bills to worry about.
no more student loans.” she laughed
and said, “i’ll buy you a castle.”
i had some scotch and said,
“it all sounds great.”
“but i shouldn’t think things
like that.”
“why?”
“it’s wrong. what if it doesn’t
happen?
what if i’ve just jinxed myself?”
“it’s okay,” i said, refilling
the drinks.
“it’s fine to fantasize like that.
everyone does it.”
“you too?”
“every night.”
then we were quiet a moment
lost in our drinks
and human dreams.
“but i wouldn’t quit work,” she
suddenly said. “at least not right away.”
“why not?”
“i wouldn’t quit until
i made enough so that
you could quit too.”
“are you sure?” i asked.
“it’s only right,” she said.
“you hate to work.
more than most of us,
you hate going to work with
a passion.”
she was certainly right about that.
“thank you,” i said.
then we toasted dreams
and good fortune
and fell silent again to the humming
of our fans
and i thought
well, there’s another reason
amongst thousands
as to why i
married her.
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