Your butt sticks out
His knee collapses inward on the lunge
She squeals when attacked, frozen into immobility
His hand—magnetically attracted to his chest
Her automated defense—stick the arm out straight
And run away
I haven’t seen this crew for a full year
And nothing’s changed
Habitual reactions
Technical tics
Deep rooted and, I fear
Entirely resistant to reform
My consciousness uncomfortably aroused
I catch myself in surreptitious glances
At my feet
Peeking o’er my shoulder at my tush
Self-consciously suspecting a dispassionate observer
Back from leave
Would think the same of me…
Oh Stuart, can we get a mirror for the salle?
A little self-reflection could be good for all
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