How unremarkably the day commenced.
You’d think there’d be a pounding in the head
or bitter foretaste — something that evinced
the warning signal: “Dingbat, stay in bed.”
In seven seconds flat, my face has turned
a dozen shades of crimson. I’ve outclassed
the planet’s leading idiots and earned
the title, Queen of Faux Pas. I’m aghast.
No other course of action now exists:
I’ll have to join a convent, change my name,
tell friends and family, “Cross me off your lists
before your lives are tainted with the shame.”
But, look astern … hope’s foaming in my wake!
(I realize I dreamed my worst mistake.)