On Saturday mornings
I read novels about stuff like guys running
or playing ball or just being with their friends.
“Realistic fiction.” I don’t know why
it’s not just called “real fiction” or why
I don’t want to read anything else anymore.
I like that it’s real people,
real stuff happening to them
in real time. In my books, nobody
jumps off a mountain, then bounces
back up to the top. Nobody can fly or
cast a lifesaving web
across the city. I wish.
But life doesn’t work that way.
Today I’m reading a novel about these kids
who live in Harlem
and get in some trouble over a science project.
Something about their faraway life and
different kind of problems makes the stuff
happening around here seem like—
I don’t know. Feels like anything can
be kinda okay in the end. Maybe
that’s why I like realistic fiction. Real
problems that real people could have
and the stories not always ending
with some happily ever after. But still
most people seem to end up
okay.