holding no regrets for lies
he’s told
he does bemoan a certain
lack of loyalty
his lies have shown him
given time and all the loss
he’s ever known
great strides in conscience
grace his girlish gait
gaily walking swiftly
toward mayhem
fearing men who can’t
outrun their trousers*
feeling he has left his pants exhausted at the door
fled becomes the only strategy he leaves behind
feeling he has left his pants exhausted at the door
fled becomes the only strategy he leaves behind
every little heartbeat
letter sound may bore him
evacuating cavities of if and next
each time he tries to flee
his bowels deform him
despite goodwill he runs
from every little score
decrying any love that
tries to sing him
denigrating the use of
inlet when his taste for foreign lingo favors fjord
could the narrow breadth of
vast unopened heartache
castrate the way he waddles
into wrath
cavorting with the this and
that - what have you
beneath the folds of one
crass outlandish gown
belying the unflappable
tags of dignity
besieged by definitions
that have him prancing out of town
absolution from untruths he
knew would haunt him
await him at those
blanched and toothy gates
aware that all the things
that fight to love him
are all the things he
doesn’t really hate…
* “a man can’t out run his trousers” -
from Alistair MacLeod’s play No Great Mischief
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