Wherein I create a poem by adding returns to the ends of sentences in a paragraph;

The easier the job,
the larger the margin
for error.
Disagree? Why do you think people get hit by a cars while crossing the street?
Left, right, left.
A helpful, primary colored orb.
A stick man, frozen in white time,
glittering his safe passageway.

What about my job - a thick pile of paper, directly written.
A spoken order, in order,
a telephone's jangly whine.
What could possibly be so challenging about practiced robotics?
Oh.
The scientist's dilemma...
belief.
Or, maybe, the actor's dilemma:
sustained belief.

I spend too much time with my chin heavy in my hand for any energetic pretending.
Every day, my energy for pretending diminishes.
And so we come to today, a gray folder bristling with financial information,
found quivering and tucked behind an assortment of useless blanks,
and so today, I open it,
coughing at the dust to find the shivering beast within,
these timestamped papers, this
notification of importance, the King's seal.
I am seized, by the court marshal of guilt, and
frozen, by the stun gun of inevitability which is that eventually,
I will do something terrible.

Everyone does, and eventually,
even this most choreographed of dance will cause me to trip and fall,
and eventually,
and nearly,
one day I will have a job with
more than one responsibility so that
when I fail
I fail within a sweet bed of success.

This is why people smoke cigarettes.