I wish I had handled things better. They
wouldn’t have walked all over me. I burn
with regret, recycling the ways I didn’t act
and the ways I should’ve. But this is wrong
thinking, I decide, as my ego sits in the dock
awaiting my ex officio ruling. I rise in my
judicial robes, pajamas and slippers beneath,
and read the verdict: I find you were not weak.
You should get off your own case. Stop beating
up on yourself. Rejoice that you are a poet whose
weapons are words. (I point at felons in orange
jumpsuits outside). You’re not one of them.