Prose Poem: There is nothing left to write.

 

When I went into the Writing Bureau

for my weekly assignment,

the clerk behind the counter said:

"Sorry, there's nothing left to write."

"What does THAT mean?" I asked him.

"Nothing left to write? That's nonsense!"

I felt something unpleasant closing in on me.

He adjusted his arm garters and pulled down

his green plastic eyeshade before he answered me:

"Just like I said: There. Is. Nothing. Left. 

To. Write. Period. Everything has been written

about exhaustively, to the point of nausea.

He shuttered his counter right in my

face.

"So I'm superfluous" I whispered to myself.

As I shuffled out of the Writing Bureau 

I bumped into my old friend Sally Applebaum.

She wrote exquisite recipes for fruit compotes,

using the metric system.

Now she was superfluous, too.

I took her to a nearby stationary store,

where we commiserated with each other

while trying out fountain pens and drinking

distilled water on the rocks.

"Sally" I said to her, "why don't we get married?"

So we went down to City Hall to get a 

Marriage License.

The clerk behind the counter told us:

"Sorry, there are no more marriages . . . "

I stopped her right there.

"I know" I said, "everybody is already

married, right?"

"Wrong, wise guy" she told me,

tweaking her jabot,

"There are no more marriages . . . on earth.

You have to go Mars to get hitched."

"Has this been written about?" asked

Sally hopefully, "because I haven't read anything

about it."

"Search me" said the clerk with a shrug.

"I belong to the Illiteracy Brigade."

"I haven't read about any Illiteracy Brigade either" I

told Sally excitedly.

"So there are still things to write about!" she

yelled at me joyfully.

In our mad enthusiasm we literally skipped

down the steps of City Hall,

where we saw a police officer put

a pterodactyl in a choke hold. 

"That's been written about" I told Sally glumly.

"Way too much" she agreed.