Handy in the wild, I dodged death enough
to not fear it, and wore the bluster like a shield,
my coat of arms that some men envied,
while old men touched eyes quietly aside
predicting my comeuppance someday soon.
Some escapades were tales circled back to me
I had forgotten, or in retelling, so embellished,
unrecognized. Today I can’t lay claim
to what could have been fumbling with the facts.
drycrikjournal 
love “fumbling with the facts”. We all are, I think, guilty of that.
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