Entitled To An Opinion
Awaiting the Breakthrough
“Snowy Night Of The Soul” — digital collage by AleXander Hirka
Looking down into the snow globe
as the last few flakes settle down
my mind wanders inside that small chalet in there
then down the hall to the room painted grey
where the philosophers are deconstructing nursery rhymes.
There are eight gathered here.
Unlike the twelve angry men
—they are not here to reach a Verdict.
But rather to shape, like sculptors
—an Opinion. And thus a course of action.
While I await the result
to build my course of action
the Tinker (in this case Bell)
and a Tailor named Elizabeth
are ruminating appetizers by the buffet table.
The Soldier—a chap named Smedley
with a button on his lapel
—reading: “War Is A Racket”
The Sailor—well, you’ve seen drawings of him
by Tom of Finland no less.
Those tight white bell-bottomed trousers
—supernaturally filled out.
What will these select few
come up with for me to act upon?
Can I really expect direction, even a map
from this coterie of mythic individuals?
Arrogantly the Rich Man scowls
—Jesus said “The poor you will always have with you.”
The Poor Man, a sticker on his lapel—”I Voted”
quotes Leonard Cohen:
—“Everybody knows that the dice are loaded
Everybody rolls with their fingers crossed.”
The Beggar Man‘s income varies dramatically
nine-to-five is rarely enough
unless Lady Luck blows on his dice.
And right now she’s here with me
watching to see what the tally will be.
The Thief—she brought in a basket of stolen assumptions
speculations, theories and judgements
and gifted them all around.
That won’t help.
There is the constant shuffle of feet in the sawdust
—scattered on the floor like they do in butcher shops.
Two clusters have tribe’d
—black flags for battle and white for peace
Yet they’re liquidly mixing and absorbing each other
like cells on a petri dish.
Strongly expressed ideas are barked out.
Check marks scratched into notebooks.
Points striking up against shields.
Eyeglasses put on, or suspiciously glanced over.
The bowl of peanuts set out by the door
just in case, for the elephant in the room
—remains untouched.
The flogger for the horse, likewise.
Repeatedly heard—“what does that have to do with this?”
And replies—”and for that matter, this with that!”
My expectations of delving here
for a new perspective from these eight
—dashed.
I eye the exit.
And so a conclusion evades
—a cookie on a shelf too high for the child’s hand.
Unreached.
I shake my head and simply watch the snow fall again.
_____________________________
Comments