I'm going to read some poems, now,
that I call "confessionals."
The first one has an epigraph from another pop record.
"Yes, it's me and I'm in love again," Fats Domino.
"You Know Me."
You know me.
I'm the one who walks into the door you're sleeping on,
wakes you to say, I went clothed among nudists,
made a good girl go bad.
I fall in love every day, so I clown.
You can't believe these are mistakes, but they are.
I made them years ago in high school,
pulling chairs from under my friends.
And when I pretended to trip, hurt myself
in the middle of town, jumping up
to run off, as a crowd gathered, leaving you the fool's helper.
You got over it, but I never did.
Mistakes wound me tight as a clock.
And now, at parties, I run down, waving my arms, going bong,
bong at the girls.
You know me, but what can you do?
Yesterday, you found I wrote "Love me"
across the seat of your clothes.
Today, a package arrives that smells like flowers.