Valentine (V)Dan Pinkerton
Fill me in on the late-night tasks you perform while the baby sleeps and I lie abed life-rafted, nearly swamped with worry. What is that furtive keyboarding, the TV amplified to muffle momentarily— what? A phone call? In the morning I find shreds of this secret business: a pair of stitched slacks, a souped-up résumé. Why can’t you lead your life openly, transparently, an artifact under glass? Don’t cloak this aspect of yourself beneath a sheet. You may think you’re preserving it, like furnishings in an unused house, but others may mistake it for something that has died.
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