Poem: An Author Talks with his Protagonist

An Author Talks with his Protagonist

Bubba Heinreid, please take note:

I see what you are doing and

you should know that I disapprove.

The fact that I made you

up is no excuse. I have

spent far less attention on

real people and for that

alone you should feel flattered.

Come with me to the sidewalk.

Have a beer.

Tell me about the girl.

The one you wished you loved.

Because she deserves it.

Because you don’t.

I’ve been there.

That’s why I wrote you.

Think of that first chapter,

when your friend snuck up

behind the two of you in the

bar and managed to

photograph your third kiss.

Two people falling toward one another,

lips just that far apart.

The avalanche begins with a pebble,

ends with a confused man,

standing before the rubble,

one hand on his forehead.

A lifetime grinding at spiral notebooks.

You would think, once in a while,

a clear-cut notion would show its face.

Instead we slap the after-shave,

tie the blindfold, stumble for hours,

a miracle that we manage to

arrive back at our beds.

I saw

Nigger Jew

scratched into

the metal above a

toilet. Remembered a

piece of sandpaper in my

pocket, reduced it to a gray

smear. Things can be

taken back, things

can be made

better.

You’re alive.

And though we often don’t

even know what that means,

we’re fairly certain that it’s a

higher state, because someday

you won’t be.

Thanks, Bubba.

I chose you well.

And don’t worry,

I take care of

those who work for me.

I picture you in a swimming pool,

on a cruise ship, west of Baja,

catching the eye of a

three-year-old who thinks you’re God.

First published in Rose & Thorn Journal

From the collection Fields of Satchmo
Photo by MJV