Maybe she’s happy,
And she’s happy because of me.
That wouldn’t be such a bad plan.
I’m sad—you can see from my poetry,
But this is the sign of the ultimate man,
A smiling gentleman in every sense,
And only sad when the poems commence.
She may be happy. Why? I’m not allowed to know;
Barred from her, I am not allowed to go
Where she goes, happy or not,
Not even on the street, not one busy spot
May I share with her. No prison is as large
As mine; my prison, the world I cannot share
With her, or be in with her, and that’s a lot.
Don’t pity me. I have many places to stay.
My prison is the long sweet night,
My prison, the wide, white day
Populated with pumpkins. And trees.
Long narrow staircases. Long views,
Or intimate views that please.
I can hear almost everything. Brash melodies
Sung by handsome male singers on their knees:
“Habibi! Habibi! Habibi!”
I can hear drums roar in my ears,
Delightful sounds which go back many thousands of years.
I can walk among saints and hear laments
Far worse than my sorrowful wants.
I can climb the old fort on the hill,
And see the sea below me, quiet and still.
I can hear the birds on the avenue sing.
I can indulge in quiet remembering.
I cannot see her, but I can dream—
It can seem just how I want it to seem.
Don’t pity me. I have cats who rest
On my lap, and purr on my patient chest.
Has there ever been a prison like mine?
I can walk in almost any direction
For hours, without detection,
Talking to myself for hours, in the sun.
Has anyone enjoyed such a prison?
A happy prison? Like I? No one.
I greet inhabitants under the sky.
I am thinking—I do that a lot—
That she is happy. That she doesn’t need men
Because I was a man to her, again and again—
Until she got tired, that’s it. That’s all.
She got bored. She got tired.
It’s not her. It’s how we are wired.
My prison has summer, winter, spring, fall.
I revealed to her what she had to know,
In my folly. Then, I sang. Now, my evening is slow.
I was a man, so I had to go.
What made me good, was my decline.
But I’m still good. So that’s fine.
She can think whatever she wants to think.
She has her thoughts. I have my ink.
I can have my say. I can do
What I do. And it’s true: whatever you say is true.
I made her happy, and that was the plan.
Is that what I am? An unhappy poet who knows
Just enough happiness wherever he goes?
Is her happiness the whole of the plan?
The final reason for the poet? The man?
The ultimate man who will never see
From his wide prison that she is happy?