False Confessions,Dirty Harry

Cameron Scott

And yes, I said, I felt lucky. I felt lucky because
in my thirties I've fallen in love with gelatin,

mountain biking through juniper, and Fanta.
I've slept every night like a baby, completely

at peace or robotic. My ears have grown in
like brambles, my blond beard has grown black

and grey. My friends say it must be keen
to be a kid again, showering dirt from scrapes,

blood, too, and watching them run down the drain
like body paint. Without school sharpened pencils

or teachers with switches, a whole decade of Julys
blister beneath fireworks, bomb pops,

and reckless suns. Instead of buckling down,
I unbuckled; staring down the barrel of a gun, I lied--