I’m sure I might have tried you on once,
whoever you are, or whatever.
I combed my hair that way,
wore those silly bell bottoms,
talked like a Virginian,
walked like I wore cowboy boots.
I tried writing like Papa, like Clemens,
Stafford and a little Whitman, too.
But they all proved too much work
for less than a little warmth and worth.
So I stopped trying and just Did,
or at least what I Could.
I discovered a Me in Me, felt
sometimes sweatpants comfy in this
baggy or too-tight skin, resigned
to this shiny sand-trap tonsure
under my hat, content with
this stringing of words that rain
happy enough even if only unhappy I read them.
I’m their inconstant wellspring,
their old unfaithful geyser.
They’re my jolly, tall, young and
once-hunky self. Even these lies.
Stand too closely to us, you might
fall in love, or indifference or maybe
just feel what might be tears.
Poem #21 in NaPoWriMo 2015’s Poem-a-Day effort. And this was an effort! That’s why I decided to write who I am and am not.