One day a gangly man told me
what you write becomes your truth
in so many words.
You think she's cute don't you
says the projection somewhere in my brainstem–
it's got roots going every which way–
self-control and experience temper and scold the echo
of the red-faced kid whose stomach jumped with affirmations.
I'm a lenient parent this time;
go play with the other kids.
And maybe, just maybe,
if I leave myself as an unpleasant inkspot,
my boy can go play in the Rye
and throw himself over a cliff
because Holden grew up and got a real job.