Dirty little secrets (A poem about hating poetry)


I wash my hair
once a week
nominally because my stylist says,
“That’s what the New York girls do”
but mostly because
I am lazy.

I pluck my eyebrows
in the the rear-view mirror
and stump hard
for the bright white sink
with the bright white light
because these days
the rogue hairs
and the dried yolk
are harder to spot than they used to be.

I sit atop a thousand little secrets
that I hold
because of the shame
because of the fear
because of the habit

I move forward
when I pull them out from under me
one by one
flinging them hither and yon
like jewels
or monkey poop,

You can make something beautiful
or something silly
out of almost anything
if you try

Even yourself
Especially yourself

Most of the trying
is in the letting go
and the rest
is just finesse

Like poetry

to be honest
I do not like
nor do I write

My dirty little secret

is not poetry
is just prose
made smaller
and flung hither and yon
like jewels
or monkey poop,


Image by dboy via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.


  1. I’m sitting here trying to figure out why this touched me so. I don’t know whether it is the connection with the honesty it takes to look at one’s life, or just the great way in which you expressed it. All I know at this time is that I was moved by the honesty, the silliness and the fun that seems to emanate from it.

    Thanks for sharing your heart. I think this is the first time I’ve commented here, but I’ve read several of your posts and have subscribed via RSS. I’ve grown to appreciate your writing very much. This one was particularly good. :-)

  2. I just got off the phone with my sister, having just sharing a dirty little secret. How timely, and therapeutic. Thanks for sharing the same wavelength :)

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