Behind my false beard
and the frown line between
the eyebrows I have developedby trying to pay attention
to the world. I am the same kid
who could never remember
his library books or what
he had been sent to the store for.
“Fog” was the name my teachers
gave to where I spent my time,
a haze that even today
can descend while I’m having
a conversation, or suddenly lift,
revealing the wrong
landmarks drifting past me
on the wrong road I took ten
miles ago. God, it has been lonely
to turn up all those years
where everyone else has arrived
long since. Yet how, without
looking just beyond
the shoulders of others
as they spoke, or searching
everywhere for the pen
I found in my own hand,
could I concentrate on the thought
I learned to write down
at last, back from the place
that has wanted me off-course
and bewildered, just as I am.
