Personal
Don’t take it personal, they said;
but I did, I took it all quite personal—
.
.
the breeze and the river and the color of the fields;
the price of grapefruit and stamps,
.
.
the wet hair of women in the rain—
And I cursed what hurt me
.
.
and I praised what gave me joy,
the most simple-minded of possible responses.
.
.
The government reminded me of my father,
with its deafness and its laws,
.
.
and the weather reminded me of my mom,
with her tropical squalls.
.
.
Enjoy it while you can, they said of Happiness
Think first, they said of Talk
.
.
Get over it, they said
at the School of Broken Hearts
.
.
but I couldn’t and I didn’t and I don’t
believe in the clean break;
.
.
I believe in the compound fracture
served with a sauce of dirty regret,
.
.
I believe in saying it all
and taking it all back
.
.
and saying it again for good measure
while the air fills up with I’m-Sorries
.
.
like wheeling birds
and the trees look seasick in the wind.
.
.
Oh life! Can you blame me
for making a scene?
.
.
You were that yellow caboose, the moon
disappearing over a ridge of cloud.
.
.
I was the dog, chained in some fool’s backyard;
barking and barking:
.
.
trying to convince everything else
to take it personal too.
.
.
.
.
by Tony Hoagland
from Poetry, Vol. 194, No. 4, July/August, 2009
from Poetry, Vol. 194, No. 4, July/August, 2009