James Bradley Wells: “Imposter Syndrome”

Impostor Syndrome

My face an old bitch’s mauled dug, sirs and madams
expected the urine stink of my clothes.
They patted my filthy head with ceremony,
they took me for someone who envied childhood memories
of Catskills Victorian, veranda view of the lake.
I was much more charming before I goddamned
their blasphemy of daffodils sprouting in December,
before I began to gospel the astronomy
of Cooper’s hawk, each pattern—lunate, spiral—
a glint in Earth’s eye. Now they brandish their cutlery
in my mutt face. They show me how it’s done.
When I think I think, I tenor, I vehicle.
The mongrel climbs the sycamore of his names.
I never logic, never real, but I mange.