Fraud


I have it all backwards,
not moved by the intricacies 
of an autumn maple leaf,
 
not in awe of ocean surf,
no need or desire to describe
the dark closet of my childhood 
 
home or the fear felt when 
the air raid siren wailed.
No words burn so intense 
 
that I must bare my soul,
so call me cold. But it is 
something I’ve chosen to 
 
create. A poem, the flower 
I plant today to admire 
tomorrow, the red striped tie 
 
with the perfect windsor knot, 
the final coat of varnish 
on a scalloped picture frame.