Tall Order

Juicy
Miracle from God
I met my match in you
Which of us has the quieter lips
The longest green stare?

Mechanical
Bastard, but not exactly
Father-figure to everyone, you
So help me now
Let’s dance, like you said, damn it

Good Guy

Ode to the bastard, or the cunning, if you will

Blame the constructively or actually absent father, the sons-of-empathyless-bitches must

And blame you too

You were late with their meal, or delivered it differently than what they’d had in mind but hadn’t shared aloud

Or had shared aloud, then in silent switched

Oh, heart-breaker, home-wrecker, save…SAVE your own life

Sell this soul as your own

Permission to abandon ship, grant thyself

Empty arms now jocular and free

Original Thought Credit: “You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should’ve behaved better.” -Anne Lamott