This is me, deep rolling fast down twenty
cement steps that lead up to the double oak doors
of St. Thomas Episcopal while I, the bird-ankle twist, am done for,
gob-smacked and walloped by fate, falling on the want
you say is sin –
skinning my knees on Fifth and 53rd,
I’ve no inclination to explain
the mechanics of this heart
because I’m an old broken clock. No, it’s not banal;
it’s Ptolemy and Plato,
both absolute and grey. People talk,
because WE MUST DEFINE IT
and I must be PIGEONHOLED
because I don’t fit neatly your social register.
You’d love to label me your hack
if if if
You’re so sticky and Catholic and catholic –
the absolute oaths; it’s all about some vow
before an oxymoron,
not a real and true promise made in the moment.
Oh baby, let me tell you, a promise and a secret
mean a whole lot more but lacks your God-slap
approval,
as if our love, our integrity, could ever be
more than a word.