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  • One might say the magic faraway tree
    is walking away and not toward me.
    Always almost, but never quite there.

    Haunted by failure, aware of the dangers,
    I navigate, anxious, between the extremes.
    All blandness in word choice,
    accents raining in all directions,
    avoiding the telephone for fear of rapid riposte.

    My jokes are more plodding,
    some meaning eludes me.
    I snigger along even when I am lost.

    Distracted by how I pronounce the word ‘pain’,
    the baker hands me the wrong kind of bread.

    I think I’ll stick to baguette in future.
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