As a child:
When people would say things that upset me
it would anger me
buzzers and whistles would go off
Then I would in turn,
say or do something I didn't truly feel
Something hateful and spiteful
Something meant to injure,
Something meant to leave marks
I would do this:
not because I was mean,
or inconsiderate,
or selfish,
or self-centered,
or even uncaring,
but because of the buzzers and whistles
that echoed in my head
In my youth they drove me to distraction

Now I accept them for what they really are
a warning, a precursor
I have learned to appreciate them for that
Like hearing a Midwest storm-warning signal in Wadsworth
I seek the basement safety in the shelter of logic
Instead of the open field of retaliations' remorse,
Those same buzzers and whistles that once lead to distraction
have, with a little practice and patience
begun to sound like delightful little dittys
like "Yankee Doodle" or some other patriotic Sousa march
Instantly, the Germanic- Irish blood coursing through my temples
acts as a coolant and not the catalyst of old
For instance, if Frank Lloyd Wright had once said
"Damn it! I came to build"
That would be like whistling "Dixie"

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