My modus operandi’s been misplaced.
Too often, guided by a flapping tongue
and jerking knee, I’ve captured barbs and flung
them carelessly about. Then, as I faced
my own reflection—sheepishly retraced
those clumsy steps—I’ve noticed how they stung.
Time truly crawls when Ego squirms. I’ve hung
my head in shame for words I spoke in haste.
So, Father, give me nothing that I ask
today, except perhaps some balm to soothe
a ruffled spouse or friend or fellow poet.
Please tilt the mirror sideways to unmask
the hidden part you see … and should it prove
to make me humble, Lord, don’t let me know it.
2002 Mary Boren