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Wednesday, January 12, 2005


I thought, I could, at least, amuse you.
Yes, I took your name, once,
on which to suckle my infant verse.
Yes, I crushed a paragraph, as fodder,
for hungering sentences of lust and love.
But I did not mean to use you.
I was trying to amuse you.

True, I might have stolen the gist
of a spontaneous outburst, or two.
True, I might have borrowed your vices
to hurl back, bundled in my own.
For, all your sins, I did excuse you.
My sins, I knew, would amuse you.

It was a habit to be on your side,
in every war, of word and faith.
It was a habit to let you rave, and rant,
and, with a shrug, to make you ache.
To hurt you, lest your mind abuse you.
To suffer, for it did amuse you.

Sometimes, I played the game with you
of yes and no and yes and no.
Sometimes, I played at wrong-and-right,
waiting for you to guess, and win.
I lost, I lose, I could not lose you.
Victory, I guessed, would amuse you.
I thought, I could, at least, amuse you.

(C) Annie Zaidi, Jan 2005


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