Very True Confessions
Once, I grew long hair
in a town with a Howitzer
parked in the town square.
I didn't want to want to belong.
Not that I was odd.
I shot up gangly
and light-headed
as milkweed and pod,
saw Vietnam in black and white
at six o'clock on eight
(with highlights at eleven),
stayed home a lot,
but attended the riots
that skewered our school,
and played enough football
to appease the poster
of Gayle Sayers I'd hung
like an icon
on the wall. Every night
the same old thing:
rather than Latin,
I'd translate myself
hurdling into a heaven
of stars, or else
sneak a beer and cut
the music up, lie
down and wait
exhausted, wearied
by his burning guitar,
and then I'd slip
into a funk, a regular
guy blind-sided
by the world.
Concerned as I was,
I'd have sooner died
than go to bed
on time. It was 1969. Hell,
anywhere at all
was somewhere else instead.
Structure
39 lines · 10 stanzas