Micah True: A True Story

Remorse

Aw, there I go again.

Sorry about that.

It's my combative personality.

I'm only a threat to myself.

You can call off the guards.

I'll put back the commas.

Don't take it personally.

Regret

I didn't mean to ruffle your ego.

Didn't mean to imply

that your words are worth less than mine.

I only wanted

an inter-library loan.

I wanted to read the last book

that Lee Harvey Oswald read:

The Shark & the Sardines.

What?

I'm disqualified from reading that?

Amazing.

Sorry about that.

But why do I have to identify myself again?

Shame

Why can't I shut up?

Sidney warned me about it

many years ago.

"Mike, someday your big fat mouth

is going to get you

in a lot of trouble."

Sigh.

What insight.

He came back from war with Hitler

a mustang captain

of brave combat engineers,

with hardly a scratch

and never mentioned that

or the Silver Stars.

I have been such a disappointment to myself.

I'm glad he never saw

the accuracy

of his prognostication.

And now I have offended

another librarian.

Amelioration

The loneliness

of the long-distance scholar.

The necessity

to stanch

the bleeding of my wounded ego

where a narcissistic wound

made me arm myself with verbal spears.

I have a sharp tongue.

A razor.

I yam what I yam.

Not sorry about that.

I never shed the blood I might have.

It's good that you didn't hear
what I said to you

 later,
when I was alone as usual.

My spears would sink a thousand ships.
You should hear me
cracking up at my own wit.
But I laugh quietly,
so as not to disturb my neighbors.

Tragedy

I will die,

alone in a room,

leaving miles of words

that someone 

will toss in a garbage can.

All my obsessive work for nothing

except my own knowing

that I tried
and gave it my best.
The indexed notes arduously scribbled,
The books attracted like iron filings
to my curious magnet.
The piles of composition spiral notebooks.
The untouched gigabytes.

You have no idea.

I'm okay with that.

I guess.