34

I don't get asked for my I. D. anymore

but band names get thrown at me

with a hip new left hook.

I couldn't tell you what 'new school' is

when I'm not even sure what school I'm in.

Or maybe I already graduated

and someone forgot to tell me.

I'm sure I would remember walking across the stage,

that moment of arrival,

and that piece of paper, embossed with seals of approval-

assurance of a job well done,

an invitation to move on to the next stage in my life.

Entrenched in the third decade

I had hoped by now that I'd have figured it out

but I'm just as loin-driven as the first ten.

(My face doesn't give that away, like I said

I don't get asked for my I.D. anymore.)

It's as if my purpose in life no longer has

a purpose of its own,

now an empty ritual.

Might as well call my life a religion,

pass out the Kool-aid and foil hats,

and tell you the true mysteries.

Just enter your credit card information first, of course.

Even this ink is futile, there is no grammatical tense to live for.

I must have left my personal validation at home, officer.