All the injury I hide
Beneath the same stern countenance
You'd think they'd know

Have I any needs, and, if I had,
How would I express them
With a quiver at the edge of my taut lips

Too much of myself I give away
I am a knight in shiny tin armor
An efficient tickertape machine
Of borrowed words and gestures
Almost precious

Feelings are best kept in cheap boxes
Opened for private melancholy

8/16/99 rev. 8/18/99