Bug

Suppose that I am telling you the truth,
for just one moment of our waking days. This is my poem
and I give voice to it. That voice, however, is what follows me;
a tick upon the fringes of my ear. It tickles me
and whispers secrets there. Its steady tone is only mine to hear.

For, somewhere, on the path from mind to page; my tick
meanders from my lobe to drink, cavort, or maybe seek more
tender mates. Suppose that I am telling you the truth; that what
I love is also what I fear, and in my safest places I am scared.
That is why I seek my solace here.

I leave the waking slow to older men. My feet are rooted
to this stalwart path, where better others might encounter them.
Suppose that I am telling you the truth. The road I walk along
is far and near; this shaking is a thing that we can share,
and in our undulation, persevere.