The Long Goodbye

New York


In the past few weeks, dear reader, I have been beginning the long goodbye to my beloved house in the country. It has become too much to keep as beautiful as I insist it be. And my other loves are calling--New York with all of its lure--the arts, friends, my children and grandchildren, the arts... Writing. Travel.

In the midst of shredding and organizing 30 years of things from Little League fielder's gloves and fishing tackle to mountains of tax returns from the 1990s, I found the poem below.

Don't Expect Applause

And yet, wouldn't it be welcome

at the end of each ordinary day?

The audience could be small,

the theater modest. Folding chairs

in a church basement would do.

Just a short earnest burst of applause

that you got up that morning

and, one way or another,

made it through the day.

You soaped up in the steaming

shower, drank your Starbucks

in the car, and let the guy with the

Windex wipe your windshield

during he long red light at Broad Street.

Or maybe you were that guy

not daring to light up

while you stood there because

everyone's so down on smoke these days.

Or you kissed your wife

as she hurried out the door, even though

you were pretty sure she was

meeting her lover at the Flamingo Motel,

even though you wanted to grab her

by a hank of her sleek hair.

Maybe your son's in jail.

Your daughter's stopped eating.

And your husband's still dead

this morning, just like he was

yesterday and he day before that.

And yet you put on your shoes

ad take a walk, and when a neighbor

says Good morning, you say

Good morning back.

Would a round of applause e amiss?

Even if you weren't good.

If you yelled at your kid,

poisoned the ants, drank too much

and said that really stupid thing

you promised yourself you wouldn't say.

even if you don't deserve it.

Tibetan Buddhist maxim

M.C.