"Confessions of a Philosophical Burglar"
The bookstore on the corner teems
with abstractions. Through the window,
I see them swirling in the air.
I don ski mask and latex gloves,
take out lock picks, break in
through the back door.
I scoop a horde of disembodied notions
into an enormous vinyl bag,
tie off the neck, make my getaway.
As I head to the city park, the bag
struggles against my grip,
as if the ideas are straining
to break free of the sack's implicit shadow
and scamper off in search of the ideal.
A homeless family trudges up
and begs for a few dollars to buy some food.
I press the bag against their mouths
and squeeze. I smile encouragingly,
yet they grow thinner.
A mother sits on a bench by the duck pond,
nursing a sick child. I press the bag, aim
a stream of non-particulars into the girl's face.
Fever wraps around her forehead. She coughs
and sneezes. Tears slink down her cheeks.
Disappointed, I return to the bookstore,
break in again, release the abstractions
into musty air. A foot below the ceiling,
they form a whirlpool, as if the substantial
were being sucked into the ineffable.
Then I head back to the park, and buy a bag
of stale bread from a vendor. I sit down
next to the woman and her child,
and feed the hungry ducks.
© 2008 Fred Longworth
Follow this link to comment
|
|
