Hungry For Worms

Er, words. Yea, words.

So, here's a poem by a writer far better know for his short fiction, Raymond Carver:


The Possible

I spent years, on and off, in academe.
Taught at places I couldn't get near
as a student. But never wrote a line
about that time. Never. Nothing stayed
with me those days. I was a stranger,
and an impostor, even to myself. Except
at that one school. That distinguished
institution in the midwest. Where
my only friend, and my colleague,
the Chaucerian, was arrested for beating his wife.
And threatening her life over the phone,
a misdemeanor. He wanted to put her eyes out.
Set her on fire for cheating.
The guy she was seeing, he was going to hammer him
into the ground like a fence post.
He lost his mind for a time, while she moved away
to a new life. Thereafter, he taught
his classes weeping drunk. More than once
wore his lunch on his shirt front.
I was no help. I was fading fast myself.
But seeing the way he was living, so to speak,
I understood I hadn't strayed too far from home
after all. My scholar-friend. My old pal.
At long last I'm out of all that.
And you. I pray your hands are steady,
and that you're happy tonight. I hope some woman
has just put her hand under your clean collar
a minute ago, and told you she loves you.
Believe her, if you can, for it's possible she means it.
Is someone who will be true, and kind to you.
All your remaining days.