he spent his youth
writing what he thought
was a true story

but as he rereads it
in the second half of life
he blushes
at how the truths
have become fiction

he strikes match after match
trying to reduce this book
this embarrassment
to ashes
to scatter them
before anyone can see

and one after another
they flicker and fizzle
blistering his fingertips
but the pages
will not burn

he sighs and sits
with pen in hand
crossing out words
sentences
paragraphs

writing a new story
in the margins