by Colin Dodds
Maybe you’re just older
Maybe you shouldn’t have driven
that last thousand miles
on the soft shoulder
Getting through the night
can be a kind of art.
The truth is negotiable
you just never know which parts.
Maddened that you can’t
choose the things you keep,
and caught in the old crossfire between
what wakes you up and what puts you to sleep,
banish and abandon
the algebra of blame.
The truth was you
before you learned your name.
Category: Poetry