We are even

We are even

We are even

 

Lost in my sorrow, today I evoke you
And I can see you have been,
In my poor, miserable life,
Nothing but a good woman
Your hot-shot airs
Brought warmth to my nest
You were kind, acted according to your principles
And I know you have loved me
As you never loved anyone else
As you will never be able to love again

The appreciation game started
As you, poor lovely woman
Dodged poverty at the boarding house
Today you are a real big-shot
Life smiles and sings for you
You waste the money
Of those you easily fooled
Just like a knavish cat would play
With a wretched mouse

Today you have your mind full of unhappy illusions
Fools, friends and seducers have deceived you
The dance of magnates
With its crazy temptations,
Where social climber pretensions
Are realised and surrendered
Has settled deep inside your poor heart

There’s nothing I should thank you for
We are even now
I don’t care about what you’ve done
What you do now, or what you will do
I believe I have repaid all the favours
I received from you
But in case I unintentionally forgot some minor debt
If you wish, charge it
To one of those fools’ account

I hope that your achievements,
Poor, fleeting achievements,
Will become a long line of wealth and pleasure
I hope the big-shot who now maintains you
Has deep pockets
I hope you forsake your association with hustlers
And that other men will say “She’s a good woman”

And tomorrow, when you become decayed, old furniture
And you have no hope left in your poor heart
If you need a little help, if you would like advice
Remember this friend, who will put his life on the line
To help you in whichever way he can, when the time comes

 

From On Being Fired Again

From On Being Fired Again

I’ve known the pleasures of being
fired at least eleven times—

most notably by Larry who found my snood
unsuitable, another time by Jack,
whom I was sleeping with. Poor attitude,
tardiness,  a contagious lack
of team spirit; I have been unmotivated

squirting perfume onto little cards,
while stocking salad bars, when stripping
covers from romance novels, their heroines
slaving on the chain gang of obsessive love—

and always the same hard candy
of shame dissolving in my throat;

handing in my apron, returning the cash-
register key. And yet, how fine it feels,
the perversity of freedom which never signs