Old friends from my other, less successful lives
who put up with me, how grateful I am
to each of you for how you saved the day
when all my days were dark nights of the soul.
I must have been one of those sad cases
you see on late-night movies, thirty-plus,
insomniac, twice divorced, unsettled, poor,
while the writing I used as my excuse
for my unhappiness was utter trash.
In short, not a pretty picture to watch.
And you, whose names I sometimes can’t recall,
came out of nowhere with buckets and vans
to help me move to the next rental,
packing my books, my clothes, my manuscripts,
storing my overspill in your garages.
Some of you even let me stay with you
on living-room couches, fold-away cots,
telling me that old story: happiness
is around the next corner, heroines
were once sad women who got lucky.
You were right! At long last, happiness arrived—
a steady job, true love, a first novel.
By then, you, my bad-weather friends, were gone,
like thoughtful fairies in a Shakespeare play
who having cleaned up after our mistakes
tactfully vanish before the last act.
Now in my own house sitting at my desk,
looking out on a sunny autumn day,
I hear a roll call in the wind of thanks,
Zohreh, Jay, Greg, Judy, Marcela, Ann . . .