I Don’t Look Good In Hats
You said I do, but I don’t believe you.
Actually, I do, but in that way I believe
my mother when she says I write incredible
songs. For her and you, each of my creations,
my creation, is perfect, shimmering crystal
cut to hold light from every angle.
In my drunker hours I believe you even more.
I forget my odd corners, my stink, the places
where hair should and shouldn’t be,
and I cock an eyebrow up to congratulate
my blistering successes; the little-league trophies,
that I still breathe, that I remain un-incarcerated
despite all my best efforts, that somehow, love
always seems to find me though I’ve changed
my name and moved out west to start a new life without it.