If you’d let me, I’d bet I could.
I bet I could be a lot of the things that you like and appreciate and, maybe even need.
For instance, if you’d let me, I could be a right ear that is not made of plastic, a big cabbage leaf ear tilted toward the direction of your voice, tilted just so, so that I could take in everything you said, even the pauses, subtle gasps and audible pauses.
If you’d let me, I could rub your temples when you have a headache. I could listen to you bitch. I’d let you call me a bitch. I’d say, “Bitch, stop your bitchin’, life is too short.” I’d say that, if you’d let me.
If you’d let me I’d tell you my secrets. I’d warn you first, but if you’d permit it, I’d just go ahead and let the mudslide flow. I wouldn’t try to make excuses or bargains or play tic-tac-toe. I’d just say, “This is the messed-up me, and the truth is the messed-up me is the real me, so go ahead--run or call a taxi, I get it.”
If you'd let me, I really would be a good friend. I'd hear you. I'd understand what you were trying to tell me even if you weren't just coming right out and saying it.
We could talk about books and film and art. You could show me some things and I could do the same, if you'd let me.
If you'd let me I'd tell you in authentic terms why you are special and why you matter and why it is that the world needs you.
I'd make some mistakes. I'd apologize and mean it. I'd show up again, to see if you'd take me back.
If you’d let me, I’d get better. I would. I‘d work on it. On things. I’d learn and practice and assimilate and produce different, more-suitable (and crowd pleasing) actions.
I wouldn't embarrass you in front of your friends or family or semi-famous people you don't know but hope to know.
I'd regenerate, do a Benjamin Button, but stop at age eight right before things went south, sour. I'd be that boy inside this man's body, and I'm pretty sure you'd like me then, but it'd all depend on what you could put up with, your stamina, and if you'd let me.