Shiftiest Row to Hoe

“…if no man ever yet told the truth about himself
it was because no man ever could.” —Samuel Clemmons

behind the outhouse
buried, a steel strongbox
unmarked as a pauper’s grave
contains the truth of someone’s days
buried during a lifetime with
shovel and pick, by sweat and toil
to keep it covered, unmarked,
unkempt, hopefully forgotten
since every least moment
open and closed etched in time, 
lies there moldering
with the dispiriting thought
that no one, not even its owner,
could honestly explain or bear
its saddest parts, its tall tales, 
its lies

Jim Culleny