It’s almost not worth saying how
I am alone with my worries, which is another way of
beginning the story, again, of forgetting
suddenly & completely,
how to tie a half-Windsor
that day in sixth grade
after gym class.
But if I can’t tell anyone how alone
with my worries I am,
how will I ever get to the part
of the story where Paul’s older brother
Conrad reached over to me with a sigh,
as if I were a chicken
whose neck he was reluctant to wring,
and tied it for me, muttering
you really need to learn to do this on your own
and Conrad I’m here to tell you
that I’m still trying,
I am, honest.