At first the poem sounds like advice: don’t give in to despair; instead, meet life on its own terms. The examples are deliberately odd and funny—a lawyer flying a pirate flag, a tattoo parlor whose number spells OUCH. Then the focus narrows to a used-book store owner closing up after twenty years. He responds to a hired worker’s sudden illness with a calm “Use the bathroom,” thanks departing customers as if nothing is wrong, and continues his inventory. The speaker isn’t cruel or cold; he’s practicing a kind of honest endurance. The closing lines turn plain and quiet: most of life has gone, some remains, and that’s the truth. “Oklahoma is” becomes a statement of stubborn existence—not glamorous, not tragic, just present. The mood is wry, unsentimental, and oddly gentle.
Oklahoma Is — Summary
In Oklahoma and everywhere, despair only makes life seem more unyielding. A better tactic is to signify that life
is what it is: If you practice law, fly a pirate-flag atop your office-building. If you run a tattoo parlor, arrange for
your phone number to be 435-OUCH. If you’ve owned a used-book store for twenty years and are going out of
business, hire a temporary laborer, and when he announces he’s fixin’ to get sick, tell him, “Use the bathroom.”
When sounds of his retching drive browsers out, say, “Thanks for coming in,” and resume the final inventory.
Wait for the man to return from his undeniable nausea. Tell him to watch things. Run your errands.
Most of your life has gone away. Some of it remains. That is the God’s-honest truth. Oklahoma is.