I have a date, a date with a page,
a date with a pen, a date with my
fingers, to tap, to scribe, to take
dictation if it comes. Indulgent
chaperones preside as sweet no-
things come and go, and while
Mr. Critic takes his daily smoke
break. Maybe this go 'round he'll
just take a walk instead, the start
of a turnabout to transform into
Counsel and Coach, who steps in
the arena as an Ally, rather than
standing, cross-armed, reeking
of death, at a spectator's remove.