The Story About Not Finding Yourself
Ma lied to me about using credit cards
she'd taken in my name, notices
told the tale. I let them repossess
my car to keep post-Uni plans
for the Emerald Isle, which I liked to consider
my homeland. Filed bankruptcy at twenty-four.
Felt like I could handle city streets and what better
way to find yourself after learning how little you know
those who love ya. The boy from Dublin English School
and I battled sticks at Stephen's Green, went on
to teach and I did my time at a school
in Waterford run by a Canadian lunatic, which
I now recall as one of those best of times, sniffing
good and hard at the marker board to cloud my mind
from fear, pints of Murphys before class some mornings.
Meant to say cans because ya don't walk with pints,
though I probably would have. So I made it through
and liked the authority. Fast-forward
and boy-man from Dublin English School said
come teach in Italy they've got space, and before
I could blink at the roses he'd shoved me
so hard to concrete for reasons unknown (pints actually),
that I absconded to a pal's in Leeds and started dancing
(fork in the road). Missing Dublin so I called myself Dallas.
A childhood friend came to Leeds at Christmas, later
married the pal who'd put me up (fork had potential). No need
to bother about cliches on meant to be's, anything
can happen. I went home with a multitude scattered on winds
forgave my Ma with a distance. Didn't know
which one to pick so I built a wall and started Grad school
for Counseling. But you could say I was haunted
by equivocal longing for that green place. Aced
my first exam in Intro to Pharmacology and ed off
to clouds of smoke for eight or nine years and they were good
ones and I let go of notions that things need finding.
Things come in curious ways to fall apart and come back
together. What better way is there?
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