I lie to my Mom about smoking.
I quit, but, I can have one
Every once in a while when
No one is around to tell.
Besides, it was Dad who
Taught me to lie, and smoke.
Locking me with him in the
Blue car whose weather stripping
Would fall when the door was opened
While he smoked a pack of
foul spelling contraband.
All the while he would tell me,
"Don't tell Mommy, she'll get mad."
I learned to lie by keeping his secrets.
"Don't tell Mommy," he would say
As he touched me in ways my little mind
Refused ever to remember, "She'll get mad."
I kept his secrets, not foreseeing the years
Of therapy because, there is nothing
Worse to a little child than the fear
Of a mommy's wrath.
To bury his secrets I created lies, to keep
Them from accidentally coming out.
Stupid lies about clowns coming to our
Tin can trailer, "He left when you came,"
I would say, to Mommy.
"Why do you lie so much?"
Mommy would ask me,
Tired of my imagination that
Created such untruths.
I never could answer her,
Even now when my lies have
Become like Daddy's and I puff
My own foul smelling contraband.

01/12/2007

Posted on 01/13/2007
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