Is my job just to respect your experience and accept your conclusions?
Hey, don’t blame me; you hired me to write
these several columns every week, and I
must write each in a little while. White
space is the beginning; it glares back, a bright
tease and an impossibility: for why
(and how) could I have something new to write
three times a week? Why, just the other night
my ex-wife said we’d always lived a lie:
a topic for a column? While my shrink’s white
too-modern couch exerted just a slight
cool leather pressure on my head and on my
weakening back, he averred I not write
about her quite so often. “It isn’t right
to air a private trauma; take the high
road,” he said. His great hair, while white,
is thicker than mine. Sometimes I want to die.
What harder fate than to be a man of high
moral character condemned to write
for money in America while White?