Not meant for tears or ink
but sopping up some drink
I spilled on sitting down.
Your rumples match my frown.
I’ll melt like you, perhaps.
At least life’s small mishaps
may meet things to absorb them,
myself tonight among them.
And in a pinch, I guess,
you’d do for the facial mess
some make of themselves when they cry
at sixes and sevens outside where they try
to write about why they do it. This bit,
in embarrassed blue, a case in point.

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 35 Number 9, on page 27
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