by Connie Voisine
My self tries to become,
the way the cat by the stove becomes
after the cat has died.
My self gets out sometimes,
walks by the river where,
during droughts, boys
on dirtbikes tear up the riverbed.
Burning fuel smells like boys now
to my self who once firmly believed
in free will, but now
knows different. I encourage my self
to see more people
and so it sits on the neighbor’s patio
drinking a beverage, laughing
because the host said something
about the Republican Party.
I make appointments and my self
wanly complies. While we are driving,
my self commands, Say ‘Knock, Knock,’
and I fall for it again.
*Photo courtesy sheri.