Michael Gottlieb / Letters to a Middle-Aged Poet / 3


Assuming that we wake up and then come back to earth and eventually return to circulation, an unexpected question arises as one realizes that one is not a ghost, not invisible, in fact apparently as corporeal or at least as noticeable as one was before, at least as much as anyone else, apparently, in the immediate vicinity: when it comes those in the room who still pay us any attention, why do any of them bother?

Out of respect, or due diligence, or due diffidence or because, in fact, they remain interested in something, anything, we might still be able to offer up?

Is it obligation? Does it arise out of something that we did, we accomplished, we created, something or other we are or were responsible for, however many years ago; something perhaps that is over and done with? Is that why you all are paying attendance upon us, upon ‘me,’ whomever ‘me’ mayhap be defined as, for the purposes of this activity?

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