(for Guy De Maupassant) Poem by Camilla Keenan Koch

Guy de Maupassant constructs these delicate little tales
out of gossamer, I'm told
Nothing ever happens
It's the story of someone telling a story
And it's wonderful

If anything does happen,
it's guaranteed to be entirely predictable
Or not.
Yet I'm stuck here
with four black lines
and infinite white space
wading through postmodern horseradish
(If the white is infinite, can I put lines on it at all?)

So yeah, I'm fairly pissed.
Look at the grass.
There's clovers in it for christssake
And that blue sky
It's usually, I don't know, blue-ish
I think that's where sunlight comes from.
I've still got this book of short stories though
cute little brown thing with paisley on top.
Breathtaking.

How to be angry? My body remembers
So slap a title on it, call it poetry, see where it gets you
And let me know if the world comes up new tomorrow