by Earl J. Wilcox
Whether tis nobler to tell the truth,
fess up to it,
go ahead, unload to the wife,
let the kids in on it, too.
Call the Governor,
other Idahoans
who want to hear you say it,
let them all know the truth.
You could even call
the Senate Ethics Chair,
give him the skinny,
tell him how you really want
to come back to the Hill,
but somehow truth keeps getting
in your way.
Always hunkering around any
version of truth
you tell is that little problem
of the foot tapping,
the hand signal.
You know that version,
it’s in the transcript, dude,
where you told the truth to the cop in the next stall,
even if you have not yet told another single bring.
Except God.
Earl J. Wilcox founded The Robert Frost Review, which he edited for more than a decade. His poetry was recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
