It was a short passage of time
And too much of it misspent in wanderings,
Administered poorly it seemed,
Passively spent
And fearfully squandered.
And now more often than not
In full blown retreat
He looked for a savior.
And for a brief moment or two
Mostly at the suggestion of others,
The well-intended
As well as the institutional sages,
It was suggested that he’d find his savior
While brushing his teeth…
What a burden to bear.
Clearly this was false hope
He construed
As his redeemer
The one who would guide and comfort
The one who would lift the load
Didn’t look like that at all,
At all.
She needed to be slightly saintly
A servile savant
And a recapitulant,
A babe, bold of the garden
A righteous earth mama
A Babylon sister.
Now weary of being at point,
He wanted to pull over to the side of this road
And just yield,
And to lose this long hauled load
And replace it with a warm womanly cookie
Baked in the ovens at Victoria’s Secret.
Some scientist would tell you
(Maybe it was me?)
That the fly that crosses the room
Zigging and zagging
Bobbing and weaving,
Its wanton wanderings,
Is doing exactly,
Exactly as nature has intended;
No foolish effort
No wasted energy
No time ill spent.
And every effort, if observed and considered
Carefully
Is purposeful and practical in its life ways
And brilliantly, blithefully
Evolved and adapted for its sure
Successful mission in the life of a fly.
So stretching this truth to its probable bounds
This wisdom of the ages
Dances and displays all around us each and every day
There, but for the asking…
And so I consider the efforted attentiveness
That can be given to such study,
If we open our hearts and minds,
Or the foolishness found in our human ignorance
Of such wisdoms…
Begging
Can we learn to live and be fly-wise?
Or is our peril folly
And likely to lead us to
Our ultimate demise?
Lie to me about my truck
But do it well.
You are well practiced
So don’t cheat me of a first class deception
Filled with transparencies and travesties
Lie to me
And do it well
Because I do not want to linger
In your smoke screens of untruths.
And if you are going to cheat me
As part of this sweet deal,
At least don’t leave me sitting in your waiting room
TV blaring about some other bodies
Who have been lied to and cheated,
But only to the extent the FCC
Will allow CNN to pain our tender hearts.
~
If
Blah-bla
Your truck
Blah-bla-bla
Might be done
Blah- bla-bla-bla
If not today maybe tomorrow
(Such is sorrow)
“Thank you for your patience,” says she.
“It’s an old truck,” says I.
So maybe, maybe
Come on baby!
~
I am envious of the cat.
So relaxed as to seem like and inert black puddle
With the exception of the last three inches of his tail
Which sometimes goes
Twitch-twitch, thump-thump
On the hollow wood floor,
Drumming out a meaningful message
That I think I can comprehend
As we speak a common cross species language:
It’s a story of anger.
It’s a release of much frustration.
Meanwhile,
My day ties its slip knot tighter and tighter on
Muscle and sinew,
Spirit and soul
And I have no terrible tail to release such frustrations
And only a masseuse’s elbows and knuckles
To free my nightmare molded muscle memories.
~
Outside the waiting room window
There are English Sparrows
Passing their afternoon
Bathing in the sun lite red dust.
They nest down, splash and play
Flapping and preening their grey-brown feathers.
Can sparrows smile?
I think they may.
For now I continue to sit
In the less luxurious waiting room at Firestone.
Management might consider a dust bath for us
The abandoned.
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