I took off my orange baseball cap, even though it said "Just a good ol' boy" on it, and looking at myself in the side-view mirror, with tendrils of yellow hair curling around my face like the tentacles of a manic but sexy octopus, I should have been Botticelli's model.
Then I put my hat back on.
It didn't belong to me, and that's just the way things were back then in Vermont. We contemplated Wild Raisins and interpreted Interrupted Ferns, and everything belonged to us, even if it didn't, because we were intellectuals, and stealing isn't wrong when you're a noncognitivist.
1 comment:
Stealing is wrong, it's just that the word wrong doesn't have any meaning apart from what we intend. Wrong isn't in the world, it's only in our words.
Love your poem, by the way.
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