'You write such miserable tosh', she said
'It's all moany and sad', she said
'Write something that ain't about dying', she said
'Something happy'.
'Like what?' I said
'Well', she said, 'how about
the day your son was born and peed on the midwife
the way he looks when he smiles
his painting of a sunset
his fidgety attempts at meditation
his impersonations of Mick Jagger
the love he bears for you and me'.
'And,' she said, 'how about
that holiday in Crete
the bumblebees and the crash of the sea
the way we hug and kiss and stuff
the taste of food
the taste of me
the things we laugh at on tv'.
'And', she said, 'don't forget
mornings music goldfish drawings
pleasure leisure wealth and health
you and me and them and we
so we must be happy don't you see?'
'No, I don't', I thought to myself.
But I smiled anyway. I'm polite like that.
