I hated writing this. When you read it, you’ll see why.

But if you’re a writer and you’re serious about it, sometimes ideas come that must be written, whether you like it or not. They will rattle around inside your skull like tinnitus, driving you crazy until you get them out. Where they come from, I don’t know. Why they’re so insistent on their birthright, I don’t know. Still, a serious writer has no choice; you must write some things, even though you hate it.

And I did hate that these words must be written. But in one form or another this idea has been inside my head for years. Clearly, it had to get out. Thank God now it has, at last.

 

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Right of Way

Someone warned me not to take the shortcut.
Go the longer way, they said.
That’s a bad luck road.
But I was late,
And it would cost nine months of labor
If I didn’t make it there on time.
So I took the shortcut anyway.
A one lane mountain road.
A thrilling drive,
High and narrow.
Then something lying in the rut ahead,
Where my wheels would have to roll.
A doll?
A baby?
Could I be that unlucky?
I can’t drive around it;
Can’t get out to inspect it,
Hemmed in as I am,
Solid rock on one side
Thin air on the other.
So I watch.
And it moves a little.
I could back up;
A long reverse,
Then go the other way.
But I’d be late,
And that would cost me months of labor.
And they make dolls that move a little,
Don’t they?
And besides,
It isn’t fair.
I have a right to drive this road
Without things lying in my way,
With tiny fingers and a little button nose,
Made of plastic, surely.
Probably not skin.
Probably not bone.
Because I can’t be late.
And besides,
It isn’t fair.
I have a right to drive this road.
So I roll on.
There’s just the smallest bump,
And then it’s in the past.
I don’t look back.
I’ll be on time,
No labor lost.
That’s what matters, surely.
And besides,
It was probably a doll.