Standing in Front of It
On a two-page poem, a red pen, and the difference between writing something and finding it — one slow night at the bar.
We were short handed, low on anything decent and out of everything good, I had been apologizing to strangers most of the night before Eli slid his feelings across the bar.
“Be honest.”
The crowd had just cleared out, leaving behind a few empty pint glasses and a basket of abandoned fries.
“I always am.”
“That’s what worries me.”
I stopped pretending to inventory the cooler and opened it.
The poem was two pages long.
That was the first problem.
Young writers think inspiration is ordered up and arrives by the pound.
I read quietly while Eli wiped tables and pretended not to watch me.
The poem contained:
three moons
two oceans
a crow
some lightning
a woman named Claire
the collapse of western civilization
and somehow a reference to wolves.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out a pen.
Then I crossed out almost everything.
When I was done only one line remained.
Like the last piercing inch of moonlight in the still black ocean.
Eli looked horrified.
“You cut the whole thing.”
“No.”
I tapped the page.
“I found the poem.”
“That’s one line.”
“Exactly.”
“What’s wrong with the rest?”
I handed the book back.
“It’s standing in front of this line.”
— from The Last Saturday, Chapter One