This story

This story

This story might be a lie.

Then again it might not.

It is a half-story, the only half

I know, being a singular unit

looking at world before a page turns,

becomes history.

I waited,

into my seventh decade,

for real life to begin.

I thought this life I'd been living

had been bequeathed to me,

a gift someone thought l'd like,

and because it was bestowed

with love, perhaps,

churlish to reject.

It was like putting on

someone else's slippers.

My feet slid in

quite easily,

though worn sections chafed a little,

here and there,

not so much that I removed them,

rather waited

to see if they would become

really mine,

Of course, they never did

and all the people

I'd wanted to please,

died,