Gasoline and cut grass,
dirt under fingernails,
bearing grease wiped on pants,
You know, in middle school
I thought about being called Tom.
It was this whole self-identity thing,
I’d spent so long as Stephen,
and I wanted to be someone else.
Some oak-skinned reinvention.
He’s warm; and he smells of gasoline and cut grass.
He’s well read, quotes my favorite parts of Hamlet,
and he’s got those lead, lead bones.
those are some Achilles’ heel.
Something right out of folk-lore.
