Sometimes I wring myself out
And hang myself, a cold wet rag
In front of everyone, out to dry.
And go home and hope
That this time, my words all hit the point,
And the lines and shapes on my face
Matched the vibration (smooth)
Of my voice,
But find an eventual flaw, again,
And recite and recite it all, picture perfect
To no one but myself and God,
And think:
Next time.
January 28, 2006.
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