She paused, uncertain how she wished to end
her sentence; paralyzing indecision
delayed her very breath. A chance elision
of will or intellect had caused a bend
along the careful course she thought she'd cleared,
and progress now was difficult at best:
this choice might constitute a crucial test
that she would fail, or so she plainly feared.
Mere logic did not help, and she felt sure
that no one else had faced the same hard question,
so she rejected each well-meant suggestion,
as hypochondriacs dismiss a cure.
Her friends looked on, annoyed. At last she said,
"I'll have that chicken salad on rye bread."