Sonnet 3
She has a scrapbook of my first mistakes,
each pratfall kept in photographic pause.
A dilettante, she stops at the end take
discarding everything that was the cause.
My portrait mouth a constant desperate “o,”
my anthem a drum beat for each thud.
Nine hundred ninety miles they’ll never know,
edited out for my first step in the mud.
The portrait of my greatest victory
is not a photo op for enemy or friend.
My stammer ruins all prosperity
they pull the errors and just make up the end.
I meet you now, appearing quite adept.
I’m terrified to take a single step.
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