From a Childhood

They have removed my shoelaces
Though I am not in jail nor is anyone
Afraid I might commit suicide.

Progressively I resemble an abstract child
Relearning to speak after a seizure in
A department store on the last shopping

Day. It is not part of the cashier’s job
Description to save my life. I am sleeping
On top of the blankets in a cheap motel

With my shoes laced & glasses still on.
I am just a boy coming home late and
My mother is waiting on the stoop;

I can tell even from this dusky distance
Her worry will turn to a slapping-screaming
Rage once she realizes I am safe. Funny

How emotions are quick-change artists.
I count my hidden money several times
A day, though not for miserly reasons.

My fingers are cramped & sore from
Writing in the margins of those
Mysterious standardized tests whose

Results are never shared with us.
My calluses are stained deep gray
From pencil lead. I have never written

What I actually thought and intend not
To do so my entire life. My parents
Are having a cocktail party; most of

The guests are already tipsy, laughing
And gulping canned smoked oysters on
Tiny orange crackers. Everyone has piled

Their coats on the guest bed: mink stoles,
Long woolen overcoats, puffy imitation
Jackets. I climb on the heap and every one

Has a different odor, not all unpleasant.
When adults visit I become invisible, which
I like, especially when I crawl under

The dining room table & examine the ladies’
Nylons & witness the men’s wandering
Hands. I eavesdrop on their conversations,

Which should not be confused with family
Secrets I should not repeat to anyone and all
Their beautiful complications that remain unlaced.