How easily the voices of others rise
to the prodding of whatever question,
eager to make reply or find solution.
All the while, the instruments
in the back make a quiet din
from their tuning, tightening
a peg to cut the stutter out
of a string. And it's taken me
years to learn to rein in the doubt
that makes an awkward wobble
in the throat, to fill the little balloons
of confidence and launch them
toward the ceiling. In any room, look
away from their round and pleasant
bobbing; try to see whose hands
are still stranded and fidgeting.