THE MEN THAT DON'T FIT IN - Robert W. Service

There's a race of men that don't fit in,

    A race that can't stay still;

So they break the hearts of kith and kin,

    And they roam the world at will.

They range the field and they rove the flood,

    And they climb the mountain's crest;

Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,

    And they don't know how to rest.

If they just went straight they might go far;

    They are strong and brave and true;

But they're always tired of the things that are,

    And they want the strange and new.

They say: "Could I find my proper groove,

    What a deep mark I would make!"

So they chop and change, and each fresh move

    Is only a fresh mistake.

And each forgets, as he strips and runs

    With a brilliant, fitful pace,

It's the steady, quiet, plodding ones

    Who win in the lifelong race.

And each forgets that his youth has fled,

    Forgets that his prime is past,

Till he stands one day, with a hope that's dead,

    In the glare of the truth at last.

He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance;

    He has just done things by half.

Life's been a jolly good joke on him,

    And now is the time to laugh.

Ha, ha! He is one of the Legion Lost;

    He was never meant to win;

He's a rolling stone, and it's bred in the bone;

    He's a man who won't fit in.

Amor Fati - Jane Hirshfield

Little soul,

you have wandered

lost a long time.

The woods all dark now,

birded and eyed.

Then a light, a cabin, a fire, a door standing open.

The fairy tales warn you:

Do not go in,

you who would eat will be eaten.

You go in. You quicken.

You want to have feet.

You want to have eyes.

You want to have fears.

Untitled - Unknown

When you finally forget her,

she’s standing in the kitchen.

She thinks it’s something in the water, and it is.

Her hands stop moving,

coming to a standstill in those rubber gloves

she seems to wear like armor.

And she looks out the window.

And she takes a breath, turns off the water

and goes to sleep.

And in the morning,

she wakes up

and makes you breakfast without a word.

Even when you break the plate.

Because you don’t remember the last time you were sober

and the lines between desperate and despise

start to blur come sunrise,

so you’re never awake to see it.

And it’s her fault, really.

After all these years she still can’t cook the eggs right,

still can’t shut up the baby.

Still can’t cover up bruises quite right

so it’s her fault when the questions come, really.

What were you supposed to do.

For her, it was a quiet affair,

she washed the dishes and made you dinner and

poured whiskey till her hands shook.

And she let you slip away.

Put the baby to bed and just let you slip away.

You’ll never forgive her for that.

But what about the kids.

They all say it, they all knew before either of you did.

But what about the kids, and all the time,

what about all that time,

and wouldn’t it just be better to stick it out.

Just hold on.

Just til Christmas and then we think about the broken glass

and the doors that don’t lock. Just wait til Christmas.

And what was she supposed to do.

Let the devil keep writing messages in the mirror?

Let the kids find out?

Let her traitorous hands burn the place down?

So she just pours you a whiskey.

And she waits til Christmas.

And the kids don’t find out.

And the house stays unburnt.

And she wears her rubber gloves like armor.

Like maybe you can’t touch her

if she’s washing the dishes.

And eventually you forget her.

She takes a breath.

And puts the baby to sleep.

And she lets you.

HIS MUSIC - Stephen Dunn

It wasn’t that he liked being miserable.

He simply had grown used to wearing

a certain face, become comfortable

with his assortment of shrugs and sighs.

His friends said How are you?—

and prepared their sympathy cards.

Miserable was his style, his insurance

against life’s frightening, temporary joys.

And when the truly awful happened,

some rejection or loss,

how ready he was for its aftermath,

how appropriate his posture, his words.

Yet when she said she loved him

something silently wild and molecular

began its revolution; he would’ve smiled

if the news from the distant provinces

of his body had reached him in time.

He frowned. And did not allow the short sigh

which would have meant pleasure

but now, alone, was just old breath

escaping, the long ahhhh, that music

which soothed him, and was his song.

To Myself - Franz Wright

You are riding the bus again

burrowing into the blackness of Interstate 80,

the sole passenger

with an overhead light on.

And I am with you.

I’m the interminable fields you can’t see,

the little lights off in the distance

(in one of those rooms we are

living) and I am the rain

and the others all

around you, and the loneliness you love,

and the universe that loves you specifically, maybe,

and the catastrophic dawn,

the nicotine crawling on your skin—

and when you begin

to cough I won’t cover my face,

and if you vomit this time I will hold you:

everything’s going to be fine

I will whisper.

It won’t always be like this.

I am going to buy you a sandwich.

Alcohol - Franz Wright

You do look a little ill.

But we can do something about that, now.

Can’t we.

The fact is you’re a shocking wreck.

Do you hear me.

You aren’t all alone.

And you could use some help today, packing in the

dark, boarding buses north, putting the seat back and

grinning with terror flowing over your legs through

your fingers and hair . . .

I was always waiting, always here.

Know anyone else who can say that?

My advice to you is think of her for what she is: one

more name cut in the scar of your tongue.

What was it you said, “To rather be harmed than

harm is not abject.”

Please.

Can we be leaving now.

We like bus trips, remember. Together

we could watch these winter fields slip past, and

never care again,

think of it.

I don’t have to be anywhere.