Sam Went Out Walking

I sat down to look last night and I noticed every single one of my poems begins with the word "I." What an atrocious thing, I thought. I decided to start all over again.

Sam sat down to look last night and he noticed every single one of his poems begins with the word "I." What an atrocious thing, he thought. "I try my damnedest to being in new places and head out in new directions, but by the time I've taken out everything that didn't need to be there, I'm right back to starting with I again."

So, sick of himself once more on a Friday night, Sam went out walking. He goes out walking only when something pulls him out, some kind of illness, some longing. He goes out in search of crowds, hoping and not hoping to be seen, hoping to see some face that might help him later to assure himself he's alive. Most of the time, you could stop him, if you knew him, ask him, and he would be able to describe with accuracy all of the events about to transpire around you. He's always been that way.

So it was that he knew the woman would come calling last night, just when she did come calling his name. He knew there would be a million faces staring on the street there as he smiled, strangely, when, in fact, he had no intention of smiling. He wanted to not smile so he could prove how little he needs someone to ask him how his life has been lately, to show how much he hates it when people pretend they're not alone, not really alone in the end.

But he did smile at the woman who came for him, and she smiled back. Nothing they said together was what they meant to say, and the various, gentle little cruelties, the lingering, skin-deep truths they'd dreamed of finally unshouldering just remained silent still.

They walked a block north, and, as they parted, Sam pretended he had the intention of going somewhere and meeting someone in particular. They said goodbye, and he found himself suddenly sitting at a barstool, saw himself in the bar mirror, saw the hope in his own eyes that no one would notice as he stood back up and walked back out the door.

Stuck at his desk, at the top of another blank page, Sam really did keep trying, as hard as he could, to not end up with just himself, kept trying to pull out bits and not end up with I. He spends his Friday nights that way, his Saturday nights, his years. In the end, he always decides to start all over again.

Last night I went out walking and I ran into a woman that I love very much. Nothing was said that made any sense. But all the little days that have made up my life flashed before my eyes underneath the streetlights. I resolved, as I do whenever flashes like this one come, to no longer crave possession of the minutes the way I have longed for certain distant people and places, have pined for their return.

I will keep on trying to forget myself because I have this foolish notion that one day I might find myself that way. I will make sense when I speak, I won't just caw, will be making all the disparate little pieces whole again. I will stumble on the Truth, I'm sure of it, once I forget what I'm looking for, will walk out into the heart of matters as if I didn't care, no longer be dumb, or foreign, or used. I will find the center where they say there is no center, find it by myself if I have to. Once I finally do arrive, the last thing that will matter will be what word my poems begin with.