SONG OF FAILURE

by Susan Hoover

Who will sing the song of failure?
Who will hear its sad and sweet?
The song of failure drums in your ears.
It rushes through the trees.
You hear it and pretend to just see it
and then look somewhere else.
You don't want to write the song of failure.
The song of failure startles.
The song of failure confuses.
The song of failure jumbles the familiar chords
til they break and fall away
and then builds a new song.
No one wants to hear the song of failure.
Your friends and nearest family members have closed their ears
and walked away.
Too bad. You still have to write the song of failure.

The Song of Failure is coming into the garage
to get in his car and drive to work.
He's carrying a sippy bottle his wife
filled with pepsi to help wake him up
and a six-pack of it to get him through the day.
He's also carrying a briefcase, and
for what won't fit in, two plastic bags
filled with papers.
He heaves them into the trunk.
It's 9:45 in the morning. The garage door is open now
and the light shines in.
He lifts his arm to close the trunk.
(He might be using his heavy tool in the corner
to spear into earth, through clay and rock
to plant a tree, but he's not.)

On the tractor-mower, there's a rag,
an old shirt he used to wipe his brow.
You're standing by the tractor. Dust motes
settle in the light.
He sees your eyes-watchful
as though you've been sitting
on that tractor seat all your life
watching him.
He leans his weight for a moment
against the trunk door.
Tell it, he says.