what he did when he young
was a secret to everyone.
he refused the trees’ offer
of consolation and stayed close
to the asphalt instead.
foot followed foot from here to
the next breakfast and he still
didn’t talk much about anything
even to strangers. his childhood was
forgotten. he made up stories
to spit out like an insect
that had flown into his mouth
and never been internalized.
he told people he’d been
born so salty his mother exploded
like an ant and his father ran
from the delivery room never to be seen
again. he recalled astonishing details
of fights and concerts so stunning
the listeners could hear the bands.
he fooled everyone, no one
bothered to check on anything
and he became successful. he was notorious
for blunt honesty. he learned to wear
suits on weekdays and plaid shorts on weekends.
he got bald and laid and stepped up.
he was a standup guy, a regular mensch,
a buddy and a pal. he filled in gaps.
stayed away from cliffs, kept a few close confidences
better than anyone the tellers knew. when he died
he left a headstone and a secret about a body
in the weeds somewhere faraway, casualty
of war or love he never said, never said a word
to anyone, no need to talk about it
since he’d become what the other guy
could have been and dead men tell no tales.