I drank coffee over bacon and cheese
writing autobiography,
as easy to swallow as Rapunzel and Guinness.

The woman in a cream suit
shook gold earrings and munched
waffles from Idaho
soaked in organic maple syrup
with her mouth open

reminded me of my mother,
Paul, close your mouth when you’re eating.

I read the wine list
in the mirror
behind my back.
That was as difficult to do
as swallowing cod liver oil neat.

How many autobiographies live unwritten
within this life,
under the surface,
scratching for release
from Purgatory?

Am I lost in Dante’s wood,
or sunshine?
Is this Idaho real,
or escaping on the page,
a fleeting fairy tale?

I couldn’t catch her name.




“Why was I born?”

called the Jackdaw to the Raven.

“What’s the purpose of my life?”

whispered Piglet to Ratty.

“What does it mean?”

hissed Michelangelo to Raphael

with sour on his face.

“Where am I going?”

shouted a Dublin woman from the Northside

to Molly Malone.

“When will my answer be enough?”

I said to myself.