Guilt Lessons

Okay,
this little itch
scratch,
laceration,
fatal wound…

So many monikers,
but, let’s try blame.

Youth.

Candy store antics,
jellybeans,
quick snatch,
friends cheer,
eat,
praise,
hero,
right?

Shame.
Blame.

Blame.
Shame.

Blame.
Blame.
Blame.

Adolescence.

The fever,
impenetrable,
bullet proof,
right?

Of course,
‘til shoplifting,
almost caught us.
Hey!

Made it.

Can’t tell anybody.
Sh*t.

Half the fun.
A secret now.

A trip?
Hell, yes.

Sense of power?
Got that right.

Can’t tell anyone?
Bummer, Dude.

Pubes explode.
Girlfriends.
Back seat lovers.
Slippery gloss-lipped conquest,
right?

Sure,
‘til…

D*mn.
Condom busts.
Can’t brag.
Can’t face up.
Accountability.
F*ck the lesson.
Don’t want to grow up.
No.
No.
No.

But…
Now.

Adulthood.

Father’s wallet full of pics.
6 month old.
2 year old.
4 year old (terror).
Pride.

And Me?

Bars.
Conventions.
Manager’s meetings.
Pizza empire growing….
For them.

Them?

What about me?

Ah, c’mon.
Divorce?

Yeah, that’s right.
Blame sneaks up on ya
when you’re suckin’ hind tit
on the job,
no fault of your own.

So…

So…

So…
here mistakes take to…

A park bench… the 24/7 down-and-out hotel,
where some kind of higher self
keeps vigil over my daily reverie,
while I ready up some new learnin’…
all over again.

Guilt?

Guilt doesn’t work.
Hard lessons, though?
Got my PhD in that.

Seems so long ago,
yet so near.

The remembered past is cruel sometimes,
but never without a lesson

wanting to be learned.