1122

And me at thirty-three,
Looking back at the lucite
Rolling crib tucked in one corner
Of the room by the river.
I could spend my last book money
Listing everything I said too late
And too soon, and still go on
To mistime utterances
Another forty-four, fifty-five,
Or ease my bones sixty-six years.
The red-haired, purple-eyed one
Who emerged then, neck craned,
It's so easy to confuse him
With an audience. Number
Than numbers, clicker
Under the stack of books
I'm asked to read at three
Or four. Seven in the evening
Is morning. He's confused,
But at least he's not certain.
Not yet.