What did I know
and when did I know it,
he demands to know,
a prosecutor rather
than a boss,
a one-man senate subcommittee
eyeing me as if I am
Richard Nixon
and I have 16 minutes of missing
audio tape to explain,
why I talked to our enemy
and what exactly did I say,
a grim man with grim expression
that I can see her in
his eyes,
like a sea horse floating in his iris,
as he glares at me,
not love, not him,
not like all those other men
(even me maybe)
who paraded through her life,
if not with love on
their sleeves
(as the old saying goes)
then held out in the
palms
of their hands,
an eternal gift
which she is bound to crush,
not evil, not even meaning to,
a side effect of the
nuclear reaction
she causes inside each of us
as she moves on.
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