This one’s on me; I forgive you; all of yours; and I could, friends, be an airmail envelope smeared with white paste, moderate success, and a small wooden box, down the front (eating, full of nickels) of my shirt and be who?  A failure, a tall chair screamed at by Mrs. Lincoln?  Just as an athlete with a blue stripe doesn’t know me, just as a healthy human and skinny brown legs anyway, just as a trumpet player with brass feet, they think I am a teacher, aerosol disinfectant, and have power as an elephant mime over a ream of white bond.  But in this empty cassette box, they don’t know it is just a small, two-pressed maple leaf that is power.  List all of my accomplishments, saved as souvenirs, and yet the in-tray equals the out.  And even though I am not proud, the fan hangs its head.  I don’t recommend self-flagellation in shame or know how to spell.  Nor do I recommend a cord wrapped, listen, to find a way around its or my neck.  Dichotomy?  Why?  To be at peace, if I were a tricycle, don’t they with the swamp monster at least just whack what crawls from my chest?  I feel I could stick and try not to scream, start over my face to cut.  I have many, many faults.  With a clean slate, a map is granted of kindergarten, all over again