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The tick tick tick of the bike on the potholed street,
scatter of gravel, twigs among shadows, glass
from a shattered whatever it was and flap
at the cyclist’s eye a burst of pigeon, rings
and sunlit feathers and tick tick tick the bird
stays with him, both their heads in flight it seems,
wind in his ears he’s almost young again,

Once again, here you are talking to yourself. How does it feel?

Rather like the last time I talked to myself, except that I’ve been practicing for it more. My vocal tone is more confident. My cadences are more deliberate without losing any of the spontaneity I’d like to be known for. Sometimes I talk to my beloved, but if she’s busy working and doesn’t hear me, it’s a lot like talking to myself. Sometimes we’re hiking, and she hikes so much faster than I do that again I’m essentially talking to myself and the rocks and birds on the path. Then of course there’s driving. Driving is a very good time for talking to oneself, as well as to the other drivers you’re mad at.