I don’t know why I do it
All the sweat and fears and pretending
I don’t know why I put words on paper
And pretend they are me
Because somewhere a reader in New York
Who also pretends . . . . to be God . . . .
Decides if my words are worthy
Of the printing presses and cover designs
And marketing and promotion tours
And I hate the tours and the pretending
Of writing for a stranger, "To my good friend, Mildred"
Just like she wanted and then she leaves
And I’ll never see my good friend Mildred again
But it’s another sale and a royalty check
Proving that maybe the words had value after all
I take a noon break from Barnes & Noble
And jump on the bus toward Manhattan
And there’s a woman sitting just behind the driver
And she’s reading . . . . she’s reading my book
And I want to say, Hey, that’s me! That name, it’s mine!
But she wouldn’t believe or even care
Because to her I am only words
A shadow figure made unimportant by his own creation
But she turns a page and I think it’s a compliment
Because I have refined pretending into an art
And I will return home, to Mexico, and there pretend
That converted to pesos, I am fine for a long while
But the addiction to pretending returns
And I again put words on paper to repeat the cycle
And I don’t know why I do it