Yes, I’m guilty of all charges. I fear I must confess. It’s true I bought a purse and shoes, then bought the matching dress. What credit card I charged them on, I can only guess, but I know what I have spent. Sort of. More or less.
It does no good haranguing me. It does not help to press,
asking if I’ve found the bills, hoping I’ll say yes.
You’re making me feel guilty. Inflicting much duress.
Would it make you happier if I went fashionless? It’s not like I bought golf clubs, a sports car or a yacht. Just these paltry fashions are all that I have got. Yes, the dress is Vera Wang. The shoes are Jimmy Choo. The diamond bangles matched so well, I really needed two.
When the clerk at Tiffany’s asked what he should do, charge them on my credit card or just charge them to you, I asked to see your charge account, and, dear, it was a shock to see the balance on it. That must have been some rock you purchased just last fortnight. Might I suggest cash-and-carry the next time that you buy a gift for your secretary?
It’s not the second thoughts I dread,
but third and fourth and fifth instead—
those nights spent worrying on the pillow
while night winds howl and curtains billow.
The whine of air through frame and screen,
those curling winds that moan and keen,
echoing agonies of mind—
the doubts that blindly search and wind
through the corridors of my brain,
shedding parts that then remain.
Those times I knew that it was wrong,
but nonetheless, I went along.
Minor misdeeds I didn’t confess
left wandering my subconsciousness.
Though in our choices, we may not budge,
we are our own severest judge.
If on first thought we do not act,
those guilts pursue. It is a fact.