God, grant me the serenity to give
Over the fake ID I have with your
Name and birthday (December twenty-five
Duh) dodgily printed beneath a poor
Photographic representation resembling
My likeness. I’m finding the bouncers guardianing the door
To the control room aren’t trembling
When I present my credentials. I think I bore
Them now with my insistance about the kind-
Of-a-big-deal I am. The other night
One of them just waved me in. “Go find
Yourself,” he said. “Just get out of my sight.”
Those guys are so vain. I mean, anyone can see.
They probably think this poem is about me.
