Put It To Rest: Poetry Month Challenge
No More PhotoShopping
This is the pith I mentioned; it’s edible now
My stories were mid-sized white lies.
Slightly embellished to hide the shame
of Directionless and Chaotic,
of Unwise Decisions,
of Pleasing the Other.
My stories blamed Mother,
or this spouse or that wife
or my boss at where I should have stayed;
shoulda coulda woulda, like a language
surely designed for we of regretful remembrance.
Why did you give up on a science major?
What made you stay in school when you were barely passing?
Who told you to study accounting?
Why did you marry that irresponsible woman?
What possessed you to join the Army at 32?
Who said you should spend thousands on a wayward child instead of returning to college?
My stories were not stories.
They were made up on the fly,
bathed in sugar coating or
never told at all because of shame.
That’s why I never did high-school reunions.
