the poets lot

they

they being here

the women the girls

the hips that pass in the night

they

will at some point

call me a liar a bullshitter

in angst in anger in confusion

& I’m not

not ever

it is just the poets lot

we see things in another way

different from how they do

& I can recall with clarity

distant memories

that they

will swear blind

that that

is not what happened

& yet

it is me

who is the liar here

which always puzzles me

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