"My Story" - David Noah
My story grabs a hobo’s name
out of a boxcar and stabs it on my tux with a safety pin.
It draws blood with every breath.
My story is embarrassed
to see lovers fight in an elevator.
It is the Mammoth Cave National Park gift shop, but not Mammoth Cave.
My story is retired and lives on a pension in a small Mexican town, for tax purposes.
Like a zen master squirrel, it is always on the other side of the tree.
Or it wears aftershave on a full beard.
My story is napping and wants to be alone.
It is six years old and runs by a snow-melt creek in Flagstaff AZ.
It lurches when it walks, and sports a shy grin.
My story is about the women I have loved and the men I haven’t.
It is a flag I wave when I forget to be alive.
My story my story my story
goes bump bump bump down the stairs,
followed by a library of books
making narrative arcs all the way down
like a herd of feral slinkies.
My story is homeless, and uncertain about its future.
My story won’t shut up.