My job's a kind of conversation,
Encounters, in the lingo of this blog,
Sometimes excursions in elation,
Other times, a stoic slog,
But it can happen it's me that's taught
About, say, my former life,
Not lost but left, the memory fraught
With queasy second-thinking: strife
Between my wisdom and its price
In honest innocence. Perhaps
A soiled virginity remains
That doesn't represent a lapse
Of that desire which prompts the pains:
Tomorrow's self will see today
As one more step along the way.
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