whenever I'm engaged,
I find myself resisting
an urge to slip away
from whatever I'd
begun to say. Although
I know the art
of conversation is crucial,
the sentence I'm dispensing
feels more
like a party favor—
like a school child's
fortune-teller
crafted out of paper—
an amusement flitted
deftly from the pocket
of my pants,
first flapping, then
unfolding it before
my interlocutor
as beguilement
and suspense begin
to mount in equal measure
toward the flimsy crescendo
of one of several
predetermined
points of order.
