Over forty years ago, my man Billy would exhort his boys
to talk to their women and let them know how they feel.
It was good advice then; it’s good advice now: Tell her about it.
I still refuse that advice.

Instead, I work out these winding variations of truth,
distanced paroxysms of various emotions spurted onto pages
with false names
or no names at all
that defy the reality of the situation,
honesty be damned.
Tell her about it?
What if there’s no one to tell?

I loved Billy when he gave his suggestion.
I was in a listening mood.
I bought his album when it was new.
Why didn’t I heed his words?