i know hate, its line- mates. believe me. you kids have, i’m sure, wasted—all early morning anxious and weak-ankled—their first impatient shuffle-kicks and curses on me. no cage contains a stare that well. and despite my perch, i too know damage: precise, zeroed-in maps of possession and loss, traceries step-chiselled into moments that loop around and into—through and across— each, the other. at my worst, i am my own recurring dream, forever turning a corner. and because i am always, when push comes to shove, behind glass —seated, and away—i’ve become a fan of jealousy, can pick him out in the looping confusion of warm-ups. i have his sweater hanging somewhere on my wall, his cards tucked in a box under my bed.indulge me. tell me: can you understand what it is to be something most others only wait, grudgingly, through; endure?i can and do, can and do. i am a common cold, the advertisements that linger too long before a feature. and though you may never see this, the lights—i can assure you—go down each night; the scoreboard’s bulbs snap and flicker, then die. but the ice, it seems, will always be there: a constant wound to dress, a scar i run myself along and over.