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"What are you thinking about now?" he asked,
across the table,
over the empty plates,
into the silence of an unfinished conversation.

"Is it normal to be terrified?" I want to say.
And when will writing not feel like assembling a jigsaw puzzle
where all the pieces are gray,
or like being in a country with nothing but
out of date currency?

But no words come,
or maybe it was all the wrong words—
I don't remember.

What I remember is this:

With tired eyes and a precise, compassionate voice,
he looked at me and said,
"Fear is a useful diagnostic tool."

And then, when we got up from the table,
he took my wine glass, not quite empty of a good Chilean red,
put it to his lips,
and drank it.
Copyright 2010 by Leslie Crowley Srajek
in Just-
spring       when the world is mud-
luscious the little
lame baloonman

whistles       far       and wee

and eddieandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it’s
spring

when the world is puddle-wonderful

the queer
old baloonman whistles
far       and         wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing

from hop-scotch and jump-rope and

it’s
spring
and

        the

                goat-footed

baloonMan       whistles
far
and
wee

— The End —