I round this corner nearly every day. There in the field stands a flock of problems pecking the ground and flapping their wings. Uniform and regular, the honking and squawking is undistinguishable from yesterday. I ponder and squint; are these the same or yet another gaggle making their way along a migratory path? Trouble is feral, skulking the edges of the field but never sheltering in the yard. I must leave my hands off, knowing these are not mine. The feathers fly and I gather the strays acutely aware of the ticklish nature of this. Awkwardly I face the truth, no matter how much of a perplexity this is to me or to others, it is only geese.
Run because you want to and the starter’s whistle won’t bother you.
Picking the right time to be crazy
seems to be the key to getting away with it.
Wanting to get away with it slants the field a tad.
What crazy is, changes from place to place,
which puts all the more emphasis on the timing.
The surrounding company and barometric pressure,
play parts and put on airs.
Lighting, lighting must also be involved,
I assure you I don’t know how
and can’t calculate the Ohms,
but I flip the switches in case it helps.
I have mapped for you a fair amount more than I know.
I wish you well on your attempt,
for crazy is a kindred club,
I would hate for you to feel inept.
You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault