Prompt #39

The poor thing can’t sit still.

She cries a lot, wrings her hands.


I ask her to come outside with me

but she wants to sit under the table


in the dark. She wants to tell me

stories about the terrible things


that happened, or might happen.

She’s fussy about her fingernails,


the fit of her socks. She goes to bed

at the same time every night and rises


every morning at sunrise

or just before. She never has time


for anything important, and

she never does anything


trivial. I don’t take her anywhere

but she follows and precedes me


everywhere, asking, asking,

Who is to blame?


What do you want?
Who is imaginary? What is real?

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