Clay Memories

You’re only going to have memories

Of certain things

The ticking of a watch

The soft light from a desk lamp

The tidal snoring

From a sleeping man

You met yesterday

Be careful not to write song lyrics about this

It’s late

You’re tired

You’ll be tempted

To write a song

When you should be writing

A novel

And if not a novel
Then a short story

And if not a short story

Then perhaps a poem

But, for the love of God,

Nothing musical
Nothing that seems to sing

Glance over at that sleeping man

And ask yourself--

What would you do without him?

Can you wrap your head around that?

You don’t want to, I know

But plenty of people

Have been unable to imagine themselves

Without someone

Only to find themselves without that person

In a far shorter time

Than they expected

Somebody, right now

Is losing somebody

That they thought

They had much more time with

And that shock

That abrupt disconnect

That will be felt

Not just by them

But by you

Why do you think

You’re panicking now?
Even if it is slight

It’s still there, isn’t it?

You’re wrapped up in a blanket

Because you’re cold

But why?

The heat’s on

And it’s not even that cold outside

But the thought of the loss

Of the sleeping man

Makes you shiver

And that is--believe me--

Very understandable

This is when you start to fancy yourself

A songwriter

And I cannot stress enough

How wrong you are about that

Now, there’s nothing wrong

With being a songwriter

It’s just that you’re not anything close to one

But you are a writer

And so you should write

And this is

An ideal time for it

Because you’re so tired

You’ve completely lost

Any sense of discretion

Or restraint

Which means

Everything coming out of you right now

Is just golden

It’s got a pureness to it

That only true exhaustion can bring out

And you’re looking back on things

Trying to describe them

In poetic terms

Because you’re too tired

For anything but poetry
And you find that the memories you have

Are somehow--flexible

They shift and shudder

And sometimes

Come apart in your hands

Before you can type out

Their physicality

They’re clay, aren’t they?

Clay memories

For insomniacs

Name the piece you’re writing that

Or, you know what, that’s too clever

Just name it Clay Memories

That’s better

That’s much better

That sounds like a Woody Allen movie

And god knows the world needs

Six or seven more of those

Sorry, the sarcasm there

Was much too palpable

You’re finishing up

I can tell

You always get clever

Just when you’re bringing

What you’re working on

To a close

I’m proud of you

For avoiding making all this

Into a song

But…

Well, this is going to seem ridiculous of me

But--

Just now

Right now, I mean

Right this second

I heard music

Isn’t that wild?

I heard music

And you typing

And I thought--

Maybe there is a song--

But then I stopped myself

Because I didn’t want to send you

Down that road

From which you would never return

What you have here is fine

It’s more than fine, really

It’s lovely

Truly lovely

And you should be very proud

Now turn off the desk lamp

And go to bed

Even poetry

Shouldn’t be up

This late