telling me to live
the questions. Because
he was afraid of the answers.  He bed
lawyers and dancers. He was

my psychologist and
my lover. He used to cover
his ***** after ***.  Then we’d hit
the bars. He’d ask for the

check. And I would rush off
to pick up my son, a little numb
from the ***** martinis –
they weren’t as ***** as his

secrets. Nobody knew of his
neediness, only myself and the two
psychologists that I introduced him
to. He died with the lie, was buried

in his shame. But lived as a hero,
untarnished his name. I wrote a book
about it. I don’t keep secrets. When
they bury me I’ll be tarnished

but free.