38. Not Talk Pretty

I'll not pretend to rival David Sedaris; I'll just twist and steal a title from him. And while I'll bet his French is still better than mine, I am egotistical enough to say that I'd get into a sonnet speed-writing contest with him.

As long as it's Shakespearean; that Spenserian sonnet stuff is no joke.

It's frustrating; I'd like to use my French

so with the folk of Paris I might speak.

But lack of skill's a monkey in that wrench

and everything I say is flawed and weak.

The sentences I've practiced go off well--

to buy a beer or say my French is bad--

but when I must produce une phrase nouvelle

I feel like people think I'm dim, or mad.

My face goes into seizures, so I'm told.

As face, so brain in paroxysmic search

for phrases that it might not even hold.

And usually it leaves me in the lurch.

So rarely is my meaning well-conveyed

it's difficult remaining undismayed.