The New Explanation

There are things that I want in the world.

Including rock-n-roll.

But really it's my children, who make

faces and laugh a lot.

There is no reason to think otherwise.

I think of myself as articulate because

I never say anything that seems just right.

This sense of failure

encourages my delusions.

I find myself sobbing for hours but

really I'm watching TV

and talking on the phone.

I'm no busy body, but the neighborhood

concerns me.

Even my lies about the afternoon

can fill a smallish vase.

Other things, like my best assessment of the situation

are alluded to, but left under blankets.