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TEN YEARS OUT OF THE HOUSE                                              

 

You’re on your usual riff,

shaking your head,

at what I’m wearing

because, in my childhood

you picked out my clothes for me –

            you say yesterday so often,

            time feels like it’s rewinding –

we may hit the Paleolithic Age any day now,

if you don’t start to realize

I’m not your little boy

with his hands behind his back –

            it’s my tenth anniversary of leaving home,

            barely a shred of that kid remains,

            and I’m holding up,

            I trust in my current situation –

I no longer play soldiers in the back yard

or climb half way up the oak

or measure my height with a wall and pencil –

            I can drive a car,

            sail a boat,

            date a eunuch if I want to,

            pass out drunk on a stranger’s lawn,

            refer to the underwear I fling across the floor

            as the dirty dozen –

you wouldn’t believe

the words that come out of my mouth now,

the number of syllables,

and I no longer cry over scratches

or get angry out of the blue,

or climb out the bedroom window –

            I drink occasionally,

            I have a dog ten times the size of Muggsy,

            and I pick at the sores on my body

            unadmonished -          

but please, don’t look at the situation

as some kind of defeat,

I’m fed well,

I sing happy songs often,

I have an umbrella by my side

at the least sign of rain,

I’m off the donuts,

there’s no one special,

I sleep well,

I appreciate bird chirp,

especially first thing in the morning –

            I’m accumulating

            many small things

            that build up to a larger me,

            who’s been ten years out of this place,

            ten years in a one-bedroom apartment

            close to where I work,

            and it’s time, I reckon,

            to applaud myself,

so why not join with me,

you still in your nightgown,

me in an outfit

you hope the neighbors don’t see –

            ten years that fit,

            that look good,

            that are chic

            but comfortable,

            ten years

            you didn’t pick out for me.