I switch on the lamp.
What have you done, I ask.
Too much, I confess. Too little.
Shading my eyes with my left hand, I say
Yesterday’s leaves mask tomorrow’s faults, and
illumination breeds the desired font of all poets.
You’re full of it! I pull the rubber hose piece
from my pocket and smack it against
my palm. Do you know who I am?
The mirror doesn’t lie.
Even the sky.
I nod. This is not contrition.
My life, I admit.
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