When left alone, I’ve fabricated
stories, other me’s to entertain myself:
two old men holding down
a Common bench, a high school wench
flirting in the mall, a parade
of clowns of every hue and stripe.
If they would just spread out,
they’d be a force to reckon with,
but as it is, they’re newbies:
they bunch up, stand about in a clench,
and a single softly lobbed grenade –
the banal truth about my life –
takes out most of them all at once.
The few that remain are whacked
beyond repair, and I’ve got on my hands
the blood of friends I’ve just created.