2016-03-19 - 10:03 p.m.
There were so many things to say
on just another mundane Tuesday.
Remember always laughing friend who strangely
wore wristbands, even though he rarely, if ever
broke a sweat?
And then there was that weird bird that made an odd sound as I rounded the bend near the river, near the top of the copse.
We found a fossil that could double as a pencil holder, even though it was from a time before lead had been embedded in wood and used to bubble in tests, in order to claim the correct answer, in such otherwise messy spaces. And rooms were rooms because of the walls.
Horizontal stripes were imprinted on a shirt made of mostly cotton. And how can cotton span time so well? Is it because of light? Is it because of soil? Is it because of both? And my bourgeoisie tic must ask, "is the cotton organic?"
I used to have so many questions. Written on note cards and scraps, placed everywhere. Stuffed into shoe boxes and organized when free time presented itself, in those rare times when there was no need to chase the mighty dollar. And so I made my decision early: to eat the chips and to watch the sports, to dig in the dirt, to get familiar with the wife of bath, any sacrifice it takes in order to get the scoop
