by Bill Yarrow
Nan couldn't follow. She was a leader
by default. She'd organize the orphans, the
waitresses, the paralegals, the instructional
designers. Anywhere she saw a mob, she'd
leap in and take control. Inherently coherent,
there was no mess she couldn't manage,
no chaos she couldn't tame. I met her
in Manhattan and I became her greatest
challenge, for I was recalcitrant to order,
reason, logic and sense. She looked at me
and saw someone wrecked by recipe, ruined
by lunacy, consumed by juvenile nostalgia
for a manufactured past. Well, that was
twenty years ago. Now I only make sense.
All rights reserved.
A version of this poem appears in Pointed Sentences (BlazeVOX 2012).
It was republished in Olentangy Review.
Thank you, Darryl and Melissa Price.