Placed in sight, strategically,
my attention stubbornly averted out of principle,
this niggling conscious mind alerted
to my damning misdemeanor,
insistent this image before me,
in outrageous center view,
and walk I do in flagrant indifference,
until a slap of present abruptness,
leaves no alternative but to sigh
and ask why to this, my nemesis.
‘What?’ I asked, quiet crisply,
as he looks me up and down,
no frown but a knowing laconic inference,
my tantrum quite ridiculous,
as he steps forward
to make a statement I’ll no doubt
wish I could forget, and so he smiles,
that arrogant ‘son of a bitch’,
so I turn to walk away, had enough, then trip,
down like a tonne of bricks.
In the shadow of his stature,
standing over me with a grin,
I look up from the cobblestones,
bruised and no doubt wallowing in sin.
‘Just wanted to tell you to be careful,
these stones are slippery,’ he said
all matter a fact, and I lay their none too happy
with his snappy sense of humor,
his turning up always a cost to pay,
I guess what I get for not listening.
If God was a mate,
would you ask about it all,
expect a free handout when things got raw,
or even listen to his ranting,
just walking down the street,
where he’d show up unannounced
with a bleeding heart relief,
for some paradigm or dream
that transcended one’s consciousness,
or warn you of that trip you’re about to make?
I used to think it was advantageous,
but after a while, the sunny side wore off,
now Harold, as is known to friends,
just pops up and delivers soliloquies,
when I can’t abide a one,
and annoys the shit out of me,
day or night, dark of light
with a lesson and a platitude, at least one,
and I just want to sleep or write or run away,
each time he chooses me.
But in the end, who can argue,
he has all the answers,
and if he wants to invest in me,
why did he make me so dumb?
Tony DeLorger © 2018
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