He sits at his computer,
Seltzer by his side
(he could use some alcohol, but it would ruin his image)
Writing the least exciting kinds of stories:
Emails, memos, an E-card for his niece’s birthday.
He is a seasoned veteran of the late night,
A champion of putting it together in the morning
To present himself (or some image of himself)
To the people who picked him.
But actually he picked them:
He chose the decisive, clear-cut risk of a career
Over the terrifying risk of art.
So standing over his desk is a plaque,
Not a painting.
It has his name on it and the name of another statesman,
A more famous one,
It has a picture of them smiling over a handshake
And they lean towards the camera.
A lot of people know the statesman
A lot of people don’t
But no one knows his story.
Not his life story but his story,
The one he could have chosen to write,
The one he kept to himself.
Only he knows it,
But it has been so long
That he’s stopped telling it to himself.
It is late at night:
The statesman sits at his computer
The seltzer is empty next to him.
He types hundreds of words
But not one means a thing.
-Kat Mckay
