I remember

the day I got hired

at my first government job, and I thought

my dreams are average now.

I’ll need to find an average woman

move into an average house

buy an average car

and be thankful

that my average life

is far better

than those bombed-out houses

in the Soviet Block

maintained

by

big Russian women who always carry meat cleavers on their person in case of rape.

Most of them

don’t have cars

let alone, three meals a day.

I might meet my future wife, someday

and say, “My life is average. My dreams are dead. Would you like to be a part of that?”

It won’t work, even if she’s average

and that’s why

I write.

A hopeless depression locked me in

until I discovered the door to dreams.

It’s between my eyes.

I went to work

and pretended to be dull

like a paper-pushing pencil

that couldn’t write.

I fit right in

with the bald psychologist

with three white hairs

growing out of his chin.

He also played golf.

I learned how to act

like a bureaucrat. It’s easy

Just say, “Yes!”

all the time.

Now I understand the banality of evil

Have I become like Adolf Eichmann?

But I don’t think he was a golfer or a writer,

so I feel much better about myself.