Epistemological

I could have chosen to write this poem about the

drastically entitled and out-of-his-mind-seeming

white septuagenarian who, clearly upset, yowled

I’M ABOUT TO BE UPSET, while turning to address

a line-out-the-door post office like we were attending

his performance art piece, who said he was going to

BLOW UP THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT because YOU

wouldn’t give him a money order without proper ID, & I know,

technically, now I have written this poem about him, but would

you please set that aside for the moment & let me write to you

about how you remind me of a babysitter from my childhood—

Alex or Ian, Allison or Marie—telling me a secret I’m not supposed

to know just yet, because of age or subjective cultural context,

in your 2-door Honda bumping let’s talk about sex baby

as I gulp cans of Mr. Pibb in the backseat. You whisper

capital-T truth to me not to gain social capital, nor thwart

thine enemy, nor even to gain my confidence so that one day,

in the thick of an apocalyptic-type emergency, as we surely

shall be, I will decide to take you on my proverbial lifeboat

above all the others, no, nor not for any other self-serving

reason do you ladle generous amounts of altruistic, tender,

personal attention upon me, but just for that the fact that

we are alive together in this moment in time and space

and this post office was once a buffet-style restaurant

where, as a kid, I looked forward to eating the few times

of year we did, because this particular establishment

had the option to devour unlimited amounts of pizza

& soft serve ice cream, which now, you divulge to me,

the guys in the back call it The Posterosa, which

delights me, which salves me, which allows me to see

we a little more truly, this revealing of our secrets,

this dogged bursting through of taboo, which

palimpsests our souls a little closer with you

on me on I on us on them on they on we.