Not for My Agent's Critical Eyes

I have a magic power:
I make streetlights
go out by driving under them
sometimes.

Dale used to do it, too.
It has something to do with
electromagnetic fields
or so he said.
He called it being a slider.
I call that his way
of getting his tongue into
your brain, your rifle on his side:
you and him against the world.
Being a motivator of men
is a power in itself, but there's
a fine line between
motivation and manipulation.
Dale believed his own lies
and didn't see the danger.
The honest painters find
the world in gray.
I'm no good with brushes.
Wrenches aren't my forte either.

You didn't hear this from me
but I have another magic power.
It has nothing to do with lights
or cars or Tesla
or kids I used to drink with at twenty
or anyone else, for that matter--
not even a woman for once.

I don't use it like I should.
The guilt glares at me.
You're watching it bleed out slowly
like a leaking boiler in a basement
no one cares enough to enter.
Maybe you're clapping. Maybe you're cringing.
Maybe you're vicariously embarrassed for me.
It has nothing to do with plumbing
or blood or cellars
but it's too late to shut up now.
It's too late for a lot of things.
Twenty-eight came too soon.
Dale never did, that slider.
I know that.
We shared women
and turned out lights together.

Now go look up Tesla.
He's still in the air.