Edit of the most recent poem.
Let me know if it’s any better or worse.
I’m sorry I never told you I was voted Best Liar
for four years running since second grade
or at least until Posey McLaren fibbed that
her rooftop swimming pool goes down
a hundred feet deep. Imagine that.
Instead of a face-off, I turned the other cheek.
I spent my weekends carving untruths out of
ouija boards, engraving mottoes onto mirrors,
and spinning yarns. I got so good my mother
believed I was the neighbor’s child, wandering
into the kitchen for a cookie after lunch, and
staying for dinner because the rest of the family
was in Wales. She called me a well-bred example.
I got so good I convinced the sidewalk it was
a waterbed, into which I plunged when I fell
from the thirty-storey building of your grace.
It must have been my mockingbird talent, my
chameleon wit. Could it have been my penchant
for rap battling love, where I dropped compliments
like they hot? Could it have been that last story
I told you, as we lay like naked pick-up sticks
in the hands of the unskilled, about how
I was voted Best Liar in fifth grade, and that
I won it seven years running?