I’m here to grow, I think, the words a vague
promise told to keep children in line until
they learn a new fable. What have I made?
I ask, looking at the yard. How have I
progressed? What have I inflated into,
and if I’m amplifying, is the swell
intangible, the way a spirit increases?
Or am I over-multiplying and
refusing to die at the same time like
a tumor cell? I have raised two babies,
one of whom I’ll never fledge for his
injuries which I can’t discuss in public for,
well, I’m sure you know how people become
convinced by what’s in their portfolios,
especially when authority reassures them all
is fine. I have propagated flowers that
died as seedlings for reasons of weather,
ignorance, and neglect, and woven together
hundreds of thousands of words few have read,
creating scenes I alone enjoy on the back
screen of my mind, like living in one, two,
sometimes three worlds filtered over the
lady I greet at the corner, who’s walking
to the library, stops to confess she enjoys
when a man she envies stubs his toe.