But what if you're not sprung from sleep by the light?
To gurgle along merrily with the flow?
Snatching a banana or an orange
from one of the many overhangs?
Gabbing with the locals?
Have you finished the book you've been reading?
The one you couldn't put down?
I saw you at the supermarket in the canned soup aisle
comparing sodium levels with a metronome.
You were so engrossed I didn't stop.
The word on the street is that you're up most nights,
pacing, in your new white bucs.
Disgruntlement is a no-no, you know.
At least here in the center ring.
Your white Honda Prelude - Sil3nt 1 - sits in the parking lot
of the latest development, assuming a different persona
for every Tom, Dick, and Jane.
And if he (or she) can do it, so can you.
It's time to bee-line for the rest room
where an open mic of horn rims is about to begin -
a Rimbaudesque excitement filling the water closet,
the sand waiting to smooth wrinkled souls.
You've seen those enjambments before, you know.
But so what?
At least there's comfort in the familiar.
In the tried and true.
And with the clock ticking down it's bishop to queen four.
White on right, right?
Yes, start whistling now.
It will carry you through the atelier
resurrecting that night when inappropriateness held sway.
It was fun, wasn't it?
So what if the constable paid us a visit?
Let the swags move to the center, I say.
They'll soon be off the radar
traveling east along a bumpy two-lane
trying to absorb the changes that have occurred
in the four months they've been unlooped.
And don't forget to keep your eyes peeled
as you weather the ramifications of your latest tailspin.
Keep a pad and pencil handy, too,
next to your bed, even,
for those late-night archetypes
that are sure to emanate from your collective unconscious.
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| Robert and Shana ParkeHarrison |