Tension by Billy Collins

“Never use the word suddenly just to
create tension.”

—Writing Fiction



Suddenly, you were planting some yellow petunias

outside in the garden,

and suddenly I was in the study

looking up the word oligarchy for the thirty-seventh time.



When suddenly, without warning,

you planted the last petunia in the flat,

and I suddenly closed the dictionary

now that I was reminded of that vile form of governance.



A moment later, we found ourselves

standing suddenly in the kitchen

where you suddenly opened a can of cat food

and I just as suddenly watched you doing that.



I observed a window of leafy activity

and, beyond that, a bird perched on the edge

of the stone birdbath

when suddenly you announced you were leaving



to pick up a few things at the market

and I stunned you by impulsively

pointing out that we were getting low on butter

and another case of wine would not be a bad idea.



Who could tell what the next moment would hold?

Another drip from the faucet?

Another little spasm of the second hand?

Would the painting of a bowl of pears continue



to hang on the wall from that nail?

Would the heavy anthologies remain on their shelves?

Would the stove hold its position?

Suddenly, it was anyone’s guess.



The sun rose ever higher.

The state capitals remained motionless on the wall map

when suddenly I found myself lying on a couch

where I closed my eyes and without any warning



began to picture the Andes, of all places,

and a path that led over the mountain to another country

with strange customs and eye-catching hats

suddenly fringed with little colorful, dangling balls.