Entitlement

I hear a voice explaining my detachment
through airwaves of a phone call, better missed.
Apparently, it's like I'm there, but not,
and copied words like "introvert" come up;
not remarks, but sure, like accusations,
Dribbling the blame on me, and yuck,
it reminds me of a cocaine intervention.

Staring at my woodcut, there, unfinished,
I decide, he's had his time; it's up:
I make an attempt at apology
which is easier than trying to relate
some monologue on being called to Art.

Though I preach letting go and no regrets
I really wish he'd never seen my breasts.

Alexandra Wild

http://bathroompoet.net