I met an old man who tied a string around his johnson during church services to keep from pissing himself. He wore thick glasses and short-sleeved button down shirts. His jeans made his ass bubble out behind him. I think he wanted to have sex with me. Maybe.
I met an old woman who read my palm. She told me my first marriage would end in divorce. She said I must have had a rough infancy and a spiritual upbringing. This was wrong, but I answered yes anyway so she wouldn’t be embarrassed. I read one of her short stories. It was about the Ku Klux Klan. She said it was real.
I met a boy in high school who told me I was pretty. It was winter and we would switch scarves and gloves and jackets during fifth period art history. He told me about his drug use and his dysfunctional family. Nothing else ever happened. I was too afraid then. It’s different now.
I was little once, and I ran around barefoot and made daisy chains in the rain. My mother and I used to play a game where she was my mentally retarded sister, and I was her caretaker. I would put an imaginary pill in her mouth and stroke her throat like an animal to make her swallow it. We would laugh for hours.
I write truth in pretty boxes and call it make believe. Teach me your vagabond wantings and I will bear the halogen lights and waterlogged shoes. I will buy the Goodwill pushpins. I will change my definition of love.