To reckon all that we think is novel as not, I offer this symposium:
To all the hopeful fellows on concrete blocks,
To all the widows wondering when the next will knock,
On their windows at night,
To scare them out of their knickers,
To all the kids hanging on the highest bar their friends bet they would never have the nerve to grapple to,
Questioning how to get down now that the spectators have scattered to the next insect in which to poke with sticks.
I have a suggestion from the gooey filling in the middle of this sandwich,
The millions with time cards and cars,
The beer buyers and tax grumblers,
The fornicators and decision makers,
In bed, or in traffic, or in line at the ATM or some other reluctant place, we think of you.
We envy you, imagine that.
Those splinters we squeeze with tweezers when you gave up your grip and let fall into the woodchips.
The Today show mornings,
And evenings spent at bingo or bridge,
The companionship of a terrier,
And the freedom to deem walking a workout without guilt.
And the luck,
The most enviable luck,
Of societies’ detonators, blowing pinwheels of consequence with one selfish blast,
Who laugh and say, at least he’s not me.
