what doesn't kill you makes you weird at parties (poem)
you know the feeling (maybe it’s just me)
when the dinner party wine hits and you
start telling a long story from your past
that delights and surprises you (because
you’ve never told it before and you’re reclaiming
it right there and then) but you’re not sure if it
delights anyone else and suddenly
you feel like you’re cracking
open dusty boxes, reading aloud old letters
to yourself, introducing them to your
ratty teddy bear, and you can hear
your own voice going on like a radio
that you can’t switch off, and you feel
a deep and aching sympathetic embarrassment
for that fool who is talking, and an even deeper
gratitude for those ones so patiently listening?
no? okay, well, nevermind then.