______Here is the proof,
____________everything about me.
I couldn’t stop thinking
___________about myself as him,
so the revelatory parts of me
_____like confetti undropped
grew dusty and apologetic.
“It isn’t enough
_____to tell you any more.”
_____“I’d like to think myself
_____a generation who stayed married.”
Back here, while walking past the foreign languages,
my daily discussion with the parrot behind me,
_____above all I am unaware
who is trying to help.
_____Given an infinity to write this,
___________you might. On courage:
so much is trial and error.
_____To adapt though, to take
the raw materials
_____of predestination and refine
to a convenient last name.
_____Once, my father
_____said something accidentally
better than any he ever thought.
_____The closest I get to being alone
an unanswered phone,
_____the showers even crowded.
_____Nancy the butcherbird changes
_____the sheets and rallies discrete
with nicknames and subtle blames
_____to our bedrooms.
Brian Trimboli graduated from NYU with his MFA. While there, he held a fellowship for The Veteran Writers Workshop, and was the Poetry Editor for Washington Square Review. He has poems most recently in Gulf Coast; Forklift, Ohio; and No, Dear. He’s been pretty occupied lately with gardening and baseball, but still finds time when necessary.