I lie when I’m afraid. Often like some
TV voice promoting a weedeater,
sounding sharp while inside psyche succumbs
to dis-ease, reminds me how I teeter
toward a drink in subtle ways. Rarely now
I’ll connive like a killer, bury grace
in my backyard garden, hoping somehow
to cover up truth with a smiling face,
knowing this new relationship soon will lay
alongside her. I’ve learned now how to stop, change
course, what simple steps to take and allay
quarrels in the tunnel, capping this strange
desire to self-destruct, stop feeling. Only
my actions say if I’m happy or lonely.
Roger Armbrust
April 21, 2010
