The main character sits on his childhood bed
naming everything that's gone—ex-job, ex-wife,
ex-best friend-and finally apprehends
the breakdown we've felt coming since chapter five.
When his doctor calls with test results, most of us
decide to remain minor characters
like the quixotic neighbor growing
bonsai sequoias, or the waitress with thick
glasses and a passion for chess,
because the main character, in the thrall
of a relentless plot, can't help hurtling toward
the crumbling cliff edge. And who needs that?
Some inherit genes from generations
of minor players, some must learn to guard
those sunny Sundays with the paper
full of heroes in distant gunfire. And some of us
who've gotten smug over the years turn another page,
turn on the football game, until one day
the doorbell rings. We close our books,
adjust our eyes, and the protagonist
sweeps in insisting himself into our lives
with his entourage of lust and language,
sorrow, brio. Hero, anti-hero, it hardly matters
with the lights this bright. The music crests
and it's time to speak.
Kathleen Flenniken
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