Compounded

It started as a detail—

a city, a timeline, a year.

Something I adjusted slightly

to make a better version appear

at a party. Years ago.

Someone believed it. Moved on. And then

told someone, who told someone.

Tuesday I heard it again.

Someone introduced me—

the city, the year, my name.

I shook the hand. I said *hello.*

My mouth already knew the game.

The original lie was thirty seconds.

Convenient. Small.

Now it's how people explain me

in rooms I walk into. That's all

I wanted, maybe, back then.

To be explained a certain way.

I've gotten what I wanted.

I shake hands. I don't say.

The new person already turning

to someone else's hello.

Me, with the right version.

Nowhere left to go

with it, probably.

I got my coat. I drove home.

Arrived as the person they'd described.

Almost.