Those first-nights when I see my charge’s panic, And, in quick whispers, slip him mislaid lines, Untangled recognition scenes will light A face, inflected sense revive a flagging Voice; and my inner rating service smiles.

No. No, the program never credits Prompter. The same as nursing, ours is a self-reliant Calling regarded as its own reward… Although, in fairness, the brightest stars remember To breathe a private “thank you” at the curtain.

Just like a turntable set, sight lines shiftedv The day I gazed at that smooth slab of his– The Unknown Soldier, who then began to prompt: Mobilized for an afterlife of marble, I’m bunked here in a tomb not granted those

Whose shining names appear on that bronze roster. Distinctions should be met with gratitude; Which holds, at least until the censers exit. I paid what we all owe. And would again, Allowed to exchange this blank for clear inscriptions

Recording what I did beside my name. A greater loss than death? Identity! Homage rings hollow on an anonymous crypt. From nil and dark the self I knew calls out