It’s the lies you tell
that let you see your own stuffing;
what you say to the dumpy girl asking
how the dress hangs on her swell.
Or when the young pet owner
asks about Heaven,
if Scamper’s going
and the vet nods yes, cranks the incinerator.
When planning attacks of honesty
we’re slaves to countless variables,
not least our sparring urges to kill
and to rock our charge like a baby.
When the retard boy from Retard Woodwork class
pointed out his awful lamp, gugged at me
for approval, I spoke slowly,
nodding “Nice…It’s very nice…”
And soon I will be him, but understand
you’re not to speed me down the slope
with indulgence. Don’t grope
in the dark for me. I will bite your hand.
