The strongest part of the storm passed by
earlier, taking the clustered pollen
from the old oak tree in the yard.
I ask myself to be honest all day long,
and, if I’m being truthful,
the honesty is not my strength.
I slide into fiction
with the same flat-footed ease
a duck slides into water.
Lies textured smooth like silk ribbon
on a neatly-wrapped gift. Lies grown tired
of themselves, lies like messy packages.
I could no longer keep up
with the untruths and the falsehoods.
Rain hit the roof in pleasant tinny pellets.
This is true. For years, however, I lied
about my age in order to appear older.
I lied to keep the peace and to prevent
worry, to preserve myself,
and I’ve lied for the fun of it.
I am as honest and tired now
as the mule my neighbors owned
when I was on the farm, storytelling.
If I was lying, I wouldn’t tell.
I’d just follow the noise
of the rain into the dark.