Eureka!

At what point did I realize I was a failure?
I think it was an afternoon in the park,
tramping through leaves on my way home after
coffee, pleasantly mindless, sharing remarks

with myself about the goals of a writing life.
There was a story to finish and a story
to begin. Life was good. I had a home, a wife,
a dog: little in life with which to disagree.

I passed a soccer field alive with kids
and cheering parents. I took a bench to watch.
Here I felt the kind of energy that rids
the soul of doubt: even if a kid botched

a kick, the parents cheered no less loudly
than for heroes and stars. Here’s the perfect
audience, I thought; a writer would be proud
to have such readers, blind to your defects.

But readers are not family. Their fickle tastes
come and go like the ball. They change affection
on a whim, feeling love one moment, distaste
the next. Only family is in blood written.

I have raised no family. My archive is large—
but childless. My books do not beget more
books. My blood does not rise with the charge
to reproduce my kind, steadfast and cocksure.

On the field, the kids yell after a score.
I cheer as well, as eager as a family guest,
and then go home to brood and pace the floor--
here with my books, my room, an empty nest.

Charles Deemer