I was reading an excerpt
from your life
when it intersected mine
too wordy, not wondrous
enough for appearance on
or disappearance from
a well-worn stage.
I recalled us looking at photographs
of old forgotten criminals
you attempting to imagine them
young, swaggering and swashbuckling
I forgave you and blamed it
on a lifetime of movies
of dissatisfaction with the everyday
your lies were hardly spectacular
your crimes barely remarkable.
As for me
tonight I intend
to do a little rewriting
of my life
and watch
a film I’ve seen
several times before.
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