Self-Help

I was someone in the distance

who never got closer.

I lived in the past, so the present

was my future.

When I shook hands, I dissolved

into a mirror

where I tended

my reflection

of features so faint

my mother

strained to see them.

I was the rind, the zest,

a heart marooned

in the guest of a friend

in the back row

of a twelve-step room.

I confessed to the priest

in his box, suppressed

the north, south, east, and west

desires that pull men

over the moon.

I crooned the self-help

tune that every glance

is a gift, every second

chance a first,

the suicide fence

on the tall bridge

a positive thing

for those crawling the walls.