I am in the kitchen writing out my life.
Chopin is in the living room, urging me not to quit.
The sadness (over breakfast) and a hurried car ride-
heavy and burdensome.
I don’t care (I said) because of course
I care more than life itself-
but if I have to give up my life
in the process (I don’t care) .
Then what is the purpose of living
this strangling, overarching plot
that no one would buy
is poking at my last nerve.
So it is like this. That you will
treat me kindly in the future
and I will continue to write my life.
This is the contract I bid you sign.