Sometimes

Sometimes I speak like an elderly soul

who does not know conventional slang. Jive talk. Or hipster lingo.

She tells of things that have heart, this inner elder.

Or he. For sometimes, the inner elder me is a he.

He and she speak of what this life has wrought

and they say it in such a way

an unmistakable way

that heads cock to the side

eyes go bewildered

and silence follows, as though we have all

stepped into a play not set in this place.

Sometimes we are not

who we think we are.

And sometimes, only sometimes

it is tiresome to hide it.

Wearying to roll an immense eternal self into

everyday skin.

More satisfying to be alone, in every inch of self

Talking to walls and smiling at ghosts.

Where glass faces don’t matter

one

single

bit.

BL

1/29/13

For you.