I defiantly say: my personal is political.
I get—I take—more out of this than they do.
I negotiate, I change
These aren't just readings to me.

Admission: they aren't even readings to me.
I don't read them.
And yet opine, question, discuss.

When my father says
In Incontrovertible Rightness, with Finality,
that when I have his grey hair I will understand,
I say Experience is important, but it's not All That.

I believe this, my concession to his knowledge,
But it's also strategic, an assertion of my maturity,
My brown-black, densely populated head
—I believe/ wish—
speaking up for itself.

How can I explain?
Sometimes he doesn't know
(The way people think nowadays, for instance)
Sometimes I don't
(I don't read the papers like I should)
We each say, when we do not know,
Oh come on. Everyone knows this.
And win to ourselves, in our heads.

I know I'm not talking nonsense (mostly)
When I set up the argument in class.
I know it's frequently useful
When I don't agree,
And I know I accept, correct, when I am wrong.

And I know I am unethical
When I could have known
And should have known
And when people respond thinking I do.