Best. Poem. Ever. ...

I am finally reading Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott. I buy books and I intend to read them. And then they languish on my bookshelf. Or on the floor next to my bed. And then I pick one up, finally, and read a page or two, and then set it down, and there it sits, for days or weeks or months, until a little voice in my head tells me to pick it up again.

This morning, the little voice told me to pick up Anne's book again. So I did.

And I just read this poem, by Phillip Lopate. I read it out loud. And I laughed. Which either means that I'm a heartless bitch or that I understand, in some small way, the absurdity of self-imposed angst.


We Who Are Your Closest Friends

We who are

your closest friends

feel the time

has come to tell you

that every Thursday

we have been meeting,

as a group,

to devise ways

to keep you

in perpetual uncertainty

frustration

discontent and

torture

by neither loving you

as much as you want

nor cutting you adrift.

Your analyst is

in on it,

plus your boyfriend

and your ex-husband;

and we have pledged

to disappoint you

as long as you need us.

In announcing our

association

we realize we have

placed in your hands

a possible antidote

against uncertainty

indeed against ourselves.

But since our Thursday nights

have brought us

to a community

of purpose

rare in itself

with you as

the natural center,

we feel hopeful you

will continue to make unreasonable

demands for affection

if not as a consequence

of your disastrous personality

then for the good of the collective.