Raymond Carver, not yet sober,
Not yet cancer riddled, answered
An interviewer asking him
If he felt godlike when he wrote
Saying at most he felt useful,
Like he was doing useful work.
What is useful work, I wonder
Half asleep and headed under,
Resigned to this night, electrodes
On my chest, face, and head, supine
In another hospital bed.
I wrote before I went back down
Borrowed phrases that consoled me,
Altered phrases, torn, turned around,
Avoiding stories when I could.
Stories end. Ends are never good.