Wrapped and parceled tight in the emotion 3 pieces seperate wought, the breath catches and dies in a throat deprived of its singular slake...

Chopin and I, chide you in addition, you watch me hold my breath as I see you on, you're not going to help me are you? No...

you're going to sing to me a song self constructed, awesomely self referential, no room for me in the Inn. An animate Wailing Wall - however did I acquire this curse?

Yes dear, tell Fozzie all about it - God, God....

who is there for me. No other else apparently, as my gift, unbidden, is given Mankind's Father Confessor. Friend or foe, you'll wind up telling, confessing all to Fozzie - 'cause Every Body needs a Rabbi. And God, apparently, is mine, as none of the rest of you are listening.

You prove, ever so able: I'm not like you.

Copyright 2007 Rosalind Harbin

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