full circle in the hundred acre wood

Several years ago I watched a woman, head of some agency or other, testify before Congress. No, no, I wasn’t there. My viewing privilege was courtesy of C-SPAN. I ran across my scribbled notes today.

All the muscles in her haughty face turn down.

She sits straight, one hand over the other, swallowing as though her mouth is dry.

Cords in her neck stand out. Angry.

Her hands flutter up like birds.


Fast breathing visible through her perfect ivory sweater, thin chest enveloped in a charcoal pinstripe suit.

She looks like an afghan hound.

Capping/uncapping her pen.

Not a ghost of a smile.

Speak. Leave a memory.

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