Tell your friends you’re a painter;
they’ll want to see your work.
I know you may not have the heart.
You were lovers in your lust and rage.
But you betrayed her by your silence,
while she broke you with untruths.
And you bailed up the reasons,
under heat of the sun; yellow
in fields of ochre colored angst,
you twisted like black crows
storming the canvas.
Tell them you’re a poet;
they’ll change the conversation,
not caring how poems grow
like ivy on your fences, probing
tiny cracks in the walls of conscience.
They are heedless of ebb tides
or swells from the moonrise
on shorelines of memory.
Maybe you’ll be forgiven
when you can write a poem
that smells like cerulean blue.