2/9/08

Rose by Micah Wyatt
The sweater-clad muse who
tilts her head at me makes
me wonder at the truth of
things and I am a child,
again, lying to my mother
about whether I'd wet me
bed, when the evidence to the
contrary was obvious. I
remember the gentle way she
would ask me, once, twice,
and then, after I would not
own up, would leave me in
my room--not punished, but
alone. And instead of returning
to playing, I would contemplate
whether I was letter her down,
if she wondered about the
kind of person she had birthed.