Peter Kline


I did a thing I wasn’t meant to do.
No one made me. It was my decision.
Just something everybody knew was true
seemed iffy. I wanted further information.
In a part of town I’d never been before
an old man dressed me down with sideways eyes.
I found the camphored stairwell, second floor.
If I went up innocent, I came down wise.
What am I now? I sleep in the same bed,
pursue my ordinary daydream day,
greet my neighbors as one who has the right.
My dreams are the dreams of any righteous head,
perhaps. But picturing what I can’t say,
you put it in my mouth. That’s impolite.