Terence Winch

Epitaph

I didn’t do the best I could, even though

that’s what my father told me was all

that was expected of me. Sometimes

I just daydreamed, drank Irish whiskey,

got through the day. I was good at making

poached eggs, without using any tricks

or vinegar or special utensils. I was a great

phone conversationalist. I wasn’t a great

musician, yet I could come up with

sweet melodies with very little effort.

I had to contend with a bad case of asthma

from the age of five to thirty-three, and I think

that actually made me more empathetic. I lost

my best friend when I was five and my mother

when I was sixteen. Those losses marked

me for life. My fear of losing people,

of abandonment. I went to the same

high school as my brother, then to

the same college, then I moved away

from New York to the place where

he had settled. I was just holding on

to as much of the past as I could. I talked

to my sister, whom I adored, every day.

My wife loved me and I loved her, but

we drove each other crazy at least half

the time. Sometimes I thought she took

me for granted. Other times I thought

I should be very grateful that someone

so beautiful had been willing to marry me.

We had the ability to laugh together

uproariously at the absurdities of life.

I was a fiercely loyal friend, though

some friends wound up stabbing me

in the back. I liked to connect people

up with one another. I liked doing favors

for people, but I learned that sometimes

they will resent you for that. My best

friend was an amazing human being.

I could tell him anything without fear

or judgment. He was followed closely by

a number of other magnificent friends.

I loved my son, my one and only child,

more than I thought was possible.

His mere presence always made me happy.

I substituted poetry for religion, and I believed

that was exactly the right spiritual move.

I came to realize that death is not

absorbable. We can’t take in that kind

of information, the mystery of a loss

so final and profound. I loved sex

and pleasure of every kind. I came to

believe that “the purpose of life”

was the wrong way to frame it.

Life is its own purpose

 

Winter Travel Alert

Welcome home, all you wayfaring ramblers.

You transatlantic romantics, you weary wanderers.

The time for love at the endings is at hand.

The airports are shutting down for the winter storms.

Flights canceled. Plows clearing the highways.

We salt the earth with the tears of neglected paramours.

The Netherlands and the Maldives are sinking into the sea.

New Orleans will be washed away. People in Ireland are

moving into castle ruins and to the top of fairy forts.

The last resort is upon us. The trains are going on strike.

The wind is whistling through the cracks in the wall.

People eat fried ants and burgers made from plants.

I have removed everyone I know from the speed-dial menu.

None of them are on the other end of the line anymore.

I hear them knocking but there’s no one at the door.

St. Christopher has died in a car crash. St. Anthony lost everything

he had. St. Jude is a totally hopeless case. There is no trace of you

any longer. Saints will not preserve us. Which makes me nervous.

 

Aids to Reflection

I can’t imagine why the dogs

in the windows are barking at me

when all I have done is to fry potatoes

and cry at the kitchen table where

so many have sat in years gone by

laughing and talking and taking drugs.

We wore flannel shirts and moccasins

and we waited all night for Santa

to arrive, even though we had no

chimney. We filled our pipes and piled

our plates with sausages and pudding.

It was the most fun we ever had

with our clothes on, as the head

of the Transport Workers Union

said to the judge. But in due course

the centipedes and spiders began

to turn up in the bathtub, as our

likes on Facebook soared into the

thousands. It didn’t help that our

friends started dying off before we

got a chance to say goodbye. Dying

while sitting in front of their computers.

Dying while crawling on their bedroom

floors. Sorry. I didn’t mean for this

to turn so morbid. Let’s pretend

instead that we get our revenge

in the end on all who have wronged

us. I won’t mention any names.

 

Epistle to the Agnostics

When I used to talk to God he used to tell me

to behave. He scared me quite a bit, and was

never any fun. The same went for his mother

and son, both of whom were drowning in dolor.

At times we had to cover their statues in purple

sheets just to block out all that misery. You would

think that powerful supernatural beings would

arrange a better time for themselves. But not

this crowd. They seemed to revel in doleful

affliction. I wanted to set them straight---

you don’t need to save us. Nothing will change

if you do. You don’t need to suffer and die

and come back to life. That will have no affect

on anything. Just stay where you are and leave us be.

That would be best in the end for us all.

 

Beautiful Sunsets

I am sick of YouTube. I’m sick of worrying

about democracy. I can’t stand how stupid

so many of our fellow citizens are. They are

responsible for the misinformation they digest.

People send me books about birds and foxes.

I really do feel sorry for the animals. In the future

they will say of us: they ate animals! They drilled

for oil! They bombed their neighbors’ hospitals

and schools! I sat with you in the ER for 9 hours

on Thursday, eating blueberry muffins, waiting

for the doctor, the nurse, the test results.

I know we’re already in sudden-death overtime.

I see the beautiful sunset rise above the bridge,

the awesome orb hanging from the sky overhead

like a decoration. I’m afraid of bridges now. I have

to close my eyes and pretend there is no ocean

below that we might very well tumble into.

Wisdom will stay good for years. Just stick it

in the freezer. But knowledge turns bad just

like that and starts to stink up the whole house.

 

Teaism

I am with

my friend Holly.

We have met

up for lunch.

Holly is very funny

and smart. I am

always encouraging

her to write op-ed pieces,

or novels, or t.v. comedy

scripts.  She laughs off

my suggestions.

We wander around

downtown DC and come

upon a restaurant

called Teaism

and decide to have

lunch there.

They have every sort

of tea one might want

and a menu specializing

in holier than thou

health food.

Later, Holly says

we should

open a bar

and call it

Alcoholism.