poem 6/19

"having fun being yourself."

the title of a book my mother
had in the house
when i was young.

i suppose if the third word were changed
to almost anything else,
it probably wouldn't be
just hanging around on a shelf
for all to see.

but it was an innocent book.
even at seven i recognized that:
with a semi-childish drawing
of a girl or woman,
arms pumped into fists,
caught in mid-stride
on the way to "life."
there was a big smile on her face,
a smile that didn't fear
and didn't need anyone else.

i wanted to smile that way
with a gleam in my eyes
but couldn't.
there was something wrong with me-
a hollow, perhaps-
a hole in a chamber of my heart.
i couldn't find a "yourself"
to have fun with.
i tried.
i try.

it wasn't a conscious decision
but i did the next best,
next worst,
thing:
and lived my life
like the title of the book
with the last word
always different.