Construct

You cannot see
from this poem
that I am thinking
in italics.

My font choice
is my first falsehood of the day.

When you asked
How did you sleep?
Understanding in modern society
that such questions
do not seek an honest answer
I respond with a monotone, Fine.

A Second lie.

So it goes through the day.
A few bold face lies
but half-truths or subversions mostly
seeking advantage or conflict avoidance.

All in the convention
of ghosts emerging from a cornfield
and materializing into ballplayers—
like in the postcard from Dyersville, Iowa
push-pinned to the wall
above my writing desk.

I like to think my life has a moral
guided by an unseen hand—voice.
Build it and he will come.
Ease his pain.
Go the distance.

But baseball taught me
to steal signs and second
and if I am not cheating
I am not really trying hard enough
to win.

copyright © 2021 Kenneth P. Gurney

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