I lean into my song of self reproach,
each verse assigned its spread of deadly sins.
I spew the reveries of my commute
and chant a checklist of the ersatz pins
I stick in mental voodoo dolls. I shoot
the messenger, in fact, prepared to broach

the subject of adultery (that’s asked
and answered, though—a minor dalliance
some ten years back). Of course I call myself
endearing names like “Selfish” as I dance
and sing and reach out for an off-the-shelf
recrimination, mimicking unmasked,

untouchable behind another gauze
of calculated cuts and on-the-spot
analyses. A faux apology,
if angled right, might score a little jot
on yellow legal pad. Psychology
as music hall. Satori to applause.


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