I blame H. G. Wells.

Part admiration, part astonishment.

A majority of embarrassment mixed
with a healthy level of bemusement.

The impression you leave me with
is almost always an impressed one
and as you walk away I find myself
turning toward you, nearly crying out,
“How do you manage it, exactly?”

Knowing you don’t do it on purpose,
that you’d deny it if given the choice,
makes it that much more endearing
and makes me even more anxious
to see what else you have hidden
up those rolled-up sleeves.


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