It’s almost not worth saying how

I am alone with my worries, which is another way of

beginning the story, again, of forgetting

suddenly & completely,

how to tie a half-Windsor

that day in sixth grade

after gym class.

But if I can’t tell anyone how alone

with my worries I am,

how will I ever get to the part

of the story where Paul’s older brother

Conrad reached over to me with a sigh,

as if I were a chicken

whose neck he was reluctant to wring,

and tied it for me, muttering

you really need to learn to do this on your own

and Conrad I’m here to tell you

that I’m still trying,

I am, honest.