Worked

Clip's thirteen years old. I watched it twice.

The room held still—mouths open, half-lit.

I cursed the moderator out. Precise.

Every person in the room loved it.

Third time through: my face before the line.

The calculation. The loaded pause.

I looked like someone defusing a mine

he built himself. For the applause.

I'd do it again. That's the sick part.

Not the man I gutted on his stage.

The want. Alive. A hungry, well-trained heart

still pacing its favorite cage.