The Pitchman’s Sorrow Pitch
By Ama Codjoe
Humans and androids, sons of Wheatley and daughters of Jupiter,
I am the nobody that knows trouble seen. Some may call this
blasphemy. I believe all joy comes from a sorrow
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 delectable. They are hard
to break apart. They are plentiful and inedible.
The old man treading water in a cold sea adds to this tale
of sorrow. I’ve cried as I watched the first light
bloom on my sleeping lover’s face. A single joy slid
down my cheek, disappearing into the pillow. I knew a joy,
I knew a joy briny and private and full of time.
I’m tired of the extraordinary. I know, given all my talk, this must
sound like baloney, but I’m as wearied by the grotesque
as I am by the strikingly beautiful. I believe in the ordinary,
which is either a life of sorrow with flashes of joy or a life
of joy with crashes of sorrow. I prefer washing dishes
to folding laundry. My days run together, like the teardrop
falling into the pillow, like how I like my eggs. I know
how to tell a lie convincingly. The truth is, poetry is a lie
resembling a truth. Hallelujah. I’ve seen it all. Look long enough
and anything becomes a still life—plain and decaying, just like
you and me. I set my watch to the time it takes
to move from astonishment to apathy. Look, there’s a blue
whale breaching. Come quick, the sun is diving into the sea.
