Email Poem

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Personal Note:
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Poem

Were you even supposed to return here? 
It feels like you should be noticeably 
different, even if just slightly, improved—
a worm seeking escape from a hooked fate, 
its visible squirm an apology for not bringing 
back a catch.

Have you transformed at all? Maybe 
you did better than when you left 
me behind to find the thrill of Division 
Street. Hushed make outs inside a cigarette-
scarred red Jeep—chasing after memories 
not meant for you to keep before you 
drove them out of your (other) life.

Are you as red-faced as handed having 
been caught at plagiarizing? Scribbling 
your frayed name in place of the main 
character, calling it your story. As if 
weaving deceitful serendipity held sincerity, 
reshaping the stage and the plot to suit 
your shamefully common aims.

It was bald, not bold. She saw through 
your attempt to insert yourself into 
the script, lacking the talent to write 
it for her, yourself.

Did you think you discovered Dickens' 
unparented beside an above-ground pool? 
Her monitoring anklet trapping a tan 
line above the foot. She was no proper 
urchin, and you no Brownlow the Benefactor, 
just playing a part while robbing the bowl 
with a pilfered paper spoon.

Did your fantasies fail you miserably? You 
had to have believed it to pull off a Brownlow,
gone method, as all good liars know, at least 
that much; to touch the sunlit core of another 
with your storytelling, you have to commit 
to the bit. Portraying an orphan is as tough 
as selling threadbare 19th century costumes 
these days.

Did my bargaining for your borrowed, broken 
spoon catch you off guard? I slipped into 
my walk-on role as smoothly as a finger 
on a Chekov trigger; we knew I wouldn't pull 
punches in the third act.

Did your pressed khaki slacks gain space 
when she laughed in your tired, wrinkle-worn, 
thousandaire face? It would have deflated 
my ego back into my genes as well, which 
is why I learned my lines with composure—
cold.

My heart beats backward as the clock 
ticks towards an impending intermission, 
a necessary pause in your exposition. Its 
droning, like bees wings beating off
your tongue, a consequence of miscasting 
a counterfeit urchin as your queen.

Is the honey you reaped enough to sustain 
you now that she's cast you aside? I ask 
because a snack of saved syrup might soothe 
the medicine of eating those stolen, bitter
words now.
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