The Pitchman’s Joy Pitch
By Ama Codjoe
Humans and androids, auras of Wheatley and daughters of Jupiter,
I am the nobody that knows trouble seen. Some may call this
blasphemy. I believe all sorrow comes from a joy
passed down like a chainless pocket watch. There’s a variety
of figs that grows along the vines of countless public walls. Lush
and purple, the figs appear remarkable. They are as hard
as the softest gem. They are plentiful and indelible.
The old man muscling against the tide adds to this tale
of joy. I’ve cried as I watched the first light bloom
on my sleeping lover’s face. A single sorrow slid
down my cheek, disappearing into the pillow. I knew a sorrow,
I knew a sorrow briny and private and full of time.
I’ve grown tired of the ordinary. I know, given all my talk, this must
sound like hogwash, but I’m as wearied by the plain
as I am by the plaintive. I believe in the extraordinary,
which is either a life of joy with flashes of sorrow or a life
of sorrow with crashes of joy. I prefer washing dishes
to mopping the floor. My days run into each other, like the teardrop
falling onto the pillow, like dodgems at the county fair. I know
how to tell a lie convincingly. The point is, poetry is a truth
resembling a lie. Hallelujah. I’ve seen it all. Look long enough
and anything becomes a still life—poised and decaying, just like
you and me. I set my watch to the time it takes to move
from apathy to astonishment. Look, there’s an iceberg
breaking. Come quick, the sun is dying into the sea.
