With no reluctance she handed me her paper.
"Correct this", my daughter said.
And as I read, I recognized myself in the words
her words, my words, these words...
Emulation is the highest form of flattery.
Highly flattered I corrected any misspellings and praised the poem, left it intact, untouched, unedited,
perfect as it's proctegator.
Earlier I witnessed emulation in another form
I was un-flattered, but not untouched nor unaltered, definitely affected.
My sweet pal (a stellar actress) imitated me, for me
a great favor
and she did so to a frickin T.
She told me to ask her questions about any old thing and she answered these random topics precisely as I respond when I'm baffled by members of the opposite sex who are important and simultaneously puzzling to me.
Dead on.
I heard myself
her words, my words, those words.
Heard my own hesitation and recognized my patterns instantly.
OMG
I rot, but not.
I do, but I don't.
I mean, in this one place, I suck, but it doesn't suck, not in the grand scheme of things...
I am a MENtal retard.
I have to admit that.
I cannot, do not, have not, might not ever get it right when it comes to the you know whose!
And as I sit here, hours after, inside the house I love
surrounded by the stuff I love
next to the gassy, sighing dogs (whom I also must admit I love)
within kissing distance of the sticky-sweet boy and helluva poet girl I love and adore
I realize I do not, cannot, might not ever care if I get that other thing right
She asked me, "where does that come from?"
I wonder...
