Confessions of a Non-Conformist
At fourteen
I decided to be
unorthodox,
a man
who sings for his bread,
and likes bread
who cheats himself on his taxes,
and who would have been
first to the moon,
but on arriving
has forgotten his flag.
My mother shrieked,
and dropped her iron
on the foot of the stove.
My father reached
for his razor-strap and his wallet.
The cat yawned.
I eat carrots
in public places.
I carry spiders
out-of-doors
on the Sunday paper.
I am unfriendly with my banker.
But still wonder.
God-fearing? Free? White? Thirty-one?
Certainly afraid. I fall down cliffs in my dreams.
I support a dentist
single-handed,
and have not yet mastered
the art of breathing
underground.
-- Paul Petrie
{West Kingston, RI}
