I feel like lately, with offices and bars and theaters reopening, people are out, but they’re out with giant wounds – the kind of wounds that show sinew and bone. Some people have emerged with an extra thirty pounds, a stack of unemployment checks, a mental health diagnosis or two… Some people have emerged alone. I have emerged awkward. The lack of chit-chat in the aisles of the grocery store, and the fact that I didn’t have to flash a perfunctory smile at a dozen or more people a day have left me wooden and stammering. Here’s a poem about how I fit into this new scene… Or don’t.
How Can I Help You So far I’ve gotten by On good wine And ignorance I thought that divorce was One of those things, You know it’s out there But you don’t bump into it In the checkout aisle You don’t worry about it hurting you or yours. It’s for real housewives of various cities And that aunt you avoid at Thanksgiving You don’t rehearse what you’ll say If divorce breezes in the door at a house party Or if it tells you that your blouse looks nice. You don’t know how to put someone’s divorce Into the box with the other forbidden dinner table topics Like hemorrhoids and that football player Who either does or does not disrespect our country. I cannot give out advice about divorce Because I cannot even write a good poem about it