Anthony Robinson

Confessions

That was me standing on the corner
not wanting the light to change.

I was caught in the elevator, frantically
pushing all the buttons, stopping on every floor.

That was me kneeling down between 5th
and Adams, trying to unyellow the curb.

I was the silhouette in the cemetery, dancing
on the grave of a man named Pembroke.

And late Thursday night, that was me wandering
the South Hills, changing the mailbox numbers.

It was I who suggested, over tea and crackers,
that Caliban is a better role than Othello. 

How could I not shred your credit cards
with kitchen shears? It was for your own good.

I snuck into your study and replaced your collection
of classics with exact replicas.

I admit it - that was me you saw carrying the firewood 
back to the forest where it came from.

I signed a sworn affidavit testifying that I
invented magic realism and safety scissors.

That was me, fumbling with the keys, stumbling into the house
last night, tripping over the cat, reeking of liquor and cigarettes.

And yes, that was me lying down next to you, watching you 
breathe, almost touching your face, hoping you wouldn't wake up.

Anthony Robinson has worked in a furniture mill, shuffled papers for the United States Navy, taught freshman composition and introduction to poetry classes at the local University, and occasionally writes a poem or two. He lives and works in Eugene, Oregon. See his other work published this issue, On a Photograph, 1973.

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