When I came out, well,
I came out and out and out
and out. It’s everyday
like breathing or taking a shower.

So many ways to do it.
Sex is only one. Sometimes
I’m asked what music I love. If I say
sixties bubblegum, oopsy daisy,
I get the are-you-crazy-but-
I’m-too-polite-to-say-it stare.

Or even books. How to admit
among English majors
I haven’t read Moby Dick.
Or Ulysses. Or Light in August.
Out comes that
you’re-a-fraud smirk.
I come out anyway. Closets—
claustrophobia lessons.
Many prefer my door locked,
I can’t breathe!
They turn up the TV,
do a Sudoku, clomp to
the fridge for a Coke. I’m out.

Again. And again. Just like
I’ll be tomorrow.