The Id Is Only A Lid Poem by Patti Masterman

Before we quite knew who we were

there was nursery school,

to teach us who to be-

soft and compliant, whimsically.


Other schools came next, like locking stiles:

lower, middle, upper- where we learned guile.

Athletics were a distinguishing force,

to give us place; who stayed the course.


The games and playing sufficed our world

which yet was small, built around a lie.

But who or what was lying was unknown

(Though it is true, all children return home)


We thought ourselves quite free-

had locker room debates,

and gropings, on rare dates,

where sex was identity (though mind you, we were free)


It took so long to find ourselves,

deciding what to keep;

our lives were middling deep-

yet the learning curve was steep.


By the time we got it down

the rest weren't around,

and nothing was the same-

it was a different game.


And if none else could know

what lurked inside your mind-

they cannot see it now-

that's perhaps, of all, most kind.