The Truth

I've been blocked and busy and so haven't written much. Then last week I went into a local used bookstore and picked up a collection of poems by Philip Schultz under the moniker, "failure." (Of course I picked this book up. How could I not?)

I opened, by accident or maybe fate, to a poem called, The Truth. I knew the instant that I read the poem that soon, very soon, the book would belong to me.

You can hide it like a signature
or birthmark but it's always there
in the greasy light of your dreams,
the knots your body makes at night,
the sad innuendos of your eyes,
whispering insidious asides in every
room you cannot remain inside. It's
there in the unquiet ideas that drag and
plead one lonely argument at a time,
and those who own a little are contrite
and fearful of those who own too much,
but owning none takes up your life.
It cannot be replaced with a house or a car,
a husband or wife, but can be ignored,
denied, and betrayed, until the last day,
when you pass yourself on the street
and recognize the agreeable life you
were afraid to lead, and turn away.

To add anymore would be to tell you what to feel, what to think.