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Rated: E · Poetry · Other · #1737553
the false fronts we all wear (our personae)

disregard the front of my building,
the high western corners, with their
implications of hidden gunmen,
the fresh paint and misleading signage,
walk down the side alley and get a look
at the low shed that hides there, leaning,
threatening to slide down the bank
into the unfrozen april stream

we all keep our faux front facing
main street, in madcap denial of the dilapidation
outback; the years of frost
working in and out of the ground have pushed
the foundation posts nearly over, they are
leaning, drunk and arrogant in the dark underneath
         and out back, the cow stalls
         of childhood are empty but polished, red
         by years of abrasion and slaughter;
         the storage closets, overflowing with
         memory and paperwork, 2nd place trophies
         and county fair ribbons; the leather strap
         still hanging from a rusty nail

Main Street, the front row, your best face, the downtown
suit, we save for church and the guy at the bank.
well, I don’t mind admitting that my marquee is drooping
a little, there is leprous paint, pealing; but I have taken down those false
western corners, and I leave the side door open now, yes,
for the sweet breeze to blow through
         this is my house, now, open
         to the western wind,
         my kitchen window, now peering
         out over the bank of the stream
         to where dawn arrives,
         each morning, with thick mist
         and roses on it’s breath

yes, see me here, now,
it’s about the space, inside, the place where you are,
i am, behind that downtown face,
beyond the hand
of rouge and eye make-up;
here, I am.
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