My ideas are a curse.
They spring from a radical discontent
with the awful order of things.
I play clown. I play carpenter. I play nurse.
I play witch. Each like an advertisement
for change. My husband always plays King
and is continually shopping in his head for a queen
when only clown, carpenter, nurse, witch can be seen.
Take my LIBRARY CAPER.
I took thirty experts from our town
and each bought thirty expert books.
On an October night when witchery can occur
we each stole thirty books, we took them down
from the town library shelves, each of us a crook,
and placed them in the town dump, all that lovely paper.
We left our expert books upon the shelves. My library caper.
One night we crashed a wedding dinner,
but not the guests. We crashed the chef.
We put dollar bills in the salad, right beside
the lettuce and tomatoes. Our salad was a winner.
The guests kept picking out the bucks, such tiny thefts,
and cawing and laughing like seagulls at their landslide.
There was a strange power to it. Power in that lovely paper.
The bride and groom were proud. I call it my Buck Wedding Caper.
My own ideas are a curse for a king and a queen.
I’m a wound without blood, a car without gasoline
unless I can shake myself free of my dog, my flag,
of my desk, my mind, I find life a bit of a drag.
Not always, mind you. Usually I’m like my frying pan :
useful, graceful, sturdy and with no caper, no plan.
Anne Sexton
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