Perspective
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Sometimes I look up at the sky just to remember how small I am.
February 17, 2010
Sometimes I look up at the sky just to remember how small I am.
The Walrus (Figurative)
He starts off every morning the same
A bowl of warmed cinnamon oatmeal
And milk and cereal of the same name
A banana to go, the others left lonely
He is good at his job, but nothing really special
No Work Station 6 Peter by anyone else’s measure
But it’s a good way to take up hours of the day
The water cooler, though thirst quenching, is lonely
On the commute home, he reads pamphlets
But really aches for human contact
He glances above instructions just enough to see
Stocking-ed legs, ironed slacks—maybe too lonely
He’s doing nothing wrong, but perhaps
Nothing right by these same rules
All can appreciate his conversation, polite jokes
But no one seeks it out, for him it is lonely
From the door of the apartment—shoes off,
Cat greets him warmly between the ankles
His first grin of the day, followed by ear scratches
But even cat’s whisker tusks can’t make it much less lonely
The landscape is alluring
Glacial nooks and crannies
Disorganized synchronism of space
Herein the walrus lies
Belly to the ice
Cozy in his own space
Cozy to the sounds of melt
To the daily sights and fare
Permeating through time and space
His motivation fulfilled
He awaits for their reemergence
A body and two tusks for space
I always do the crossword in pen.
And always end up regretting this choice.
I will begin this with my defense. Hair can become a large part of a person, both metaphorically and literally. As those little follicles grow, so does your attachment to the little buggers. Many of us develop these relationships with our hair, no matter how frazzled, curly or flat. From perms–reeking with regret, to mullets–brimming with business (in the front), it is only understandable, give these deep-seated bonds, hair cuts can be momentous experiences. It’s difficult to part with those strands. And in this particular case, I had enough hair chopped off to make a thick sweater for a golden retriever. Trimmed to the chin–and bangs too.
Leaving the salon, I was satisfied, yet fascinated with this new ‘do. It was impossible to keep my nosy fingers out of it. As I combed through the back, the side, the other side, it was so strange to feel it suddenly end before the shoulders. I couldn’t stop looking at it either. As I checked my newly-minted bangs in the rear view mirror, a brown blur came into my periphery. Before my brain could fire those neurons to my leg muscles to break, or even before those neurons could reach my arms to steer out of the way–it was too late. The fate of the chipmunk was sealed. Vanity killed the chipmunk.