by Eugene Goldin
He lied through his teeth,
allowing for fictitious rhymes.
He could never tell the truth, so
what he gave served to appease our own acidic premonitions.
Therefore, we never knew just who he really was.
By the way, marinate the meat overnight.
His life was destined to become smothering.
He was committed to his muse, which
turned out to be his own anima.
Was he straight or gay or even cared to be anything?
Did I say overnight?
Oh yes, then add a pinch of salt.
Throw it over your left shoulder,
and come back to me.
Smile from one ear to another.
Have a(nother?) drink.
Get some sleep.
Remember to marinate!
Eugene Goldin was born in Manhattan and raised in Queens, N.Y. He is a professor of Counseling at Long Island University, Brookville, N.Y. His poems have recently appeared in The Fredericksburg Literary Review and Calliope Magazine.