Butter

I think it was Marie who first taught me the art
of spreading flattery on people
then smearing it around like marmalade on slabs of whole wheat bread,

or how to spray them lightly with a mist of unexpected praise
from one of those special nozzles
you attach to the end of your garden hose.

Walking around with her that year, I watched how she would

lubricate the world
—nuns and firemen, nannies and human resource managers,
nine-year-old kids in city playgrounds,
and widows selling flags in Central Park.

Pretty soon I started doing it myself,
telling this person and that how good they looked today;

how rare it is to see a job well done;
how excellent their taste in clothes.

I liked the way even the most crusty and resistant
at first would startle under the assault
then start to flourish under the effect.

I liked to watch the moisture trickle down to their roots
and then roll back up again
to all four corners of the leaf.

Why did I ever think that approval was gratuitous?
Why did it take me so long to see that the power of sweetness
is as great as the power of the river and the sun?

If I can’t improve the world by scorching it with truth,
if I can’t conquer it by twisting its arm behind its back,

then give me some adjectives like lipstick and gloss,
give me some language like mint and honey for the heart.

I will lavish the world with the power of butter.
I will force it to feel good about itself.

First I will make it blush—
then I will step back, and watch it shine.

by Tony Hoagland