Blanket

Onerous
as it may be to admit it,
I’ve got to allow
that inadequacy
has been my greatest strength.

It feels like everyone in the world
is better than me
at anything at which
I’m halfway good.
I wake up as a slouch

all the time, walk my sidewalk
with a dirty shuffle,
snicker when I should laugh
and sniffle when I should cry.
I think it’s because I’m old

and in the way. Overstayed
my welcome, became just good enough
to bother people without stirring them.
My pockets are lined with love notes
I never sent, full of bad grammar and diffidence.

Despite all that, I’ve got something in me
that likes this. I love biting on tinfoil.
I chew it up and spit it out and figure next time
I’ll swallow. All I’ve ever wanted is to be perfect,
and every failure has made me want it even more.

But here it is: the moment when I know
I’ll never be a star, never be a gadfly,
never be anything besides the old man
with bad hair and a decent vocabulary.
I used to trust my weaknesses to keep me strong

and wanting. I’ve got no reason
for that now. I’m winding my self up
in a torn blanket tonight, burning
the notebooks, falling asleep hoping I won’t
wake up — but I will, I’m sure.