I’m sorry, could you repeat that. I’m hard of hearing.

To the cashier

To the receptionist

To the insistent man asking directions on the street

I’m sorry, I’m hard of hearing. Could you repeat that?

At the business meeting

In the writing workshop

On the phone to make a doctor’s appointment

I’m-sorry-I’m-sorry-I’m-so-sorry-I’m-hard-for-the-hearing

Repeat.

           Repeat.

Hello, my name is Sorry

To full rooms of strangers

I’m hard to hear

I vomit apologies everywhere

They fly on bat wings

towards whatever sound beckons

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry

           and repeating

                       and not hearing

Dear (again)

I regret to inform you

I       am

here

Doubt is easy. You welcome it, your old friend.

Poet Edward Field told a bunch of kids,

Invite it in, feed it a good dinner, give it a place to sleep

on the couch.  Don’t make it too comfortable or

it might never leave.  When it goes away, say okay, I’ll see you

again later. Don’t fear. Don’t give it your notebook.

As for bad reviews, sure. William Stafford advised no credence to

praise or blame. Just steady on. 

Once a man named Paul called me “a kid.” I liked kids 

but I knew he meant it as an insult.  Anyway, I was a kid. 

I guess he was saying, why should we listen to kids? 

A newspaper described a woman named Frieda being asked 

if “I was serious” and “she whistled.” What did that mean?

How do you interpret a whistle? This was one thing that bothered me. 

And where did Frieda ever go?