will this pocketful of words rise up
against me
even as I dictate
them?
in the teeth of the gale of my exfoliating ego
will they prevail?
I slip my hand among them
and try to make contact
in election mode I harry my chances
I feel nothing
but the atoms of a handkerchief
and a ten dollar bill
hardly an insurrection
a pronoun like me
should be proud of