Oct/Nov 2012 Poetry


by Bob Bradshaw


An island slips under a blanket of surf.
Where was it again? Over there?

Whole decades have slipped away
with few memories.
I could reinvent my youth.
Who would question me?

I try on different costumes.
Don't yak herders sport chaps
and cowboy hats in Tibet?
I try on an Irish accent

and disappear into it for years,
emerge on the West Coast
reciting Asian poetry

in San Francisco's coffee shops. Identities
could be clothes plucked off
a rack at a garage sale.

At the end of the day does it matter
what name is put on
my head stone? Change my name,
change my dates.

Does it matter if the obituary
isn't accurate? Darling,
you will know who

I was.


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