You want me to admit my imperfection,
but how can I confess I’m never what
I never claimed to be? It’s your selection
of me as a gypsy must be shut
away as incorrect. Admit? Too weak
for me, for I will broadcast far and wide
my frail humanity, and I will speak
it everywhere until you’re satisfied.

And then you want me to apologize.
For that I’ll need some crime or negligence
regretful to recall. I’ll emphasize
I should have left before, so my offense
was waiting for an hour till you came,
and being glad to see you is my shame.