The Tragedy of the Crackers
Of all the things to step on
why the crackers?
Gentle soda crunchies
asleep in their wax paper outfit,
a stack of singles lying
--but why lying there?--
at the edge of the mess on the floor.
Strewn there—maps, books, magazines,
half a jigsaw puzzle, mallets,
tools, instruments and projects,
and I tipsy-toe a boot-camp course
through the mad tangle
only to finally, on the fringe,
nail the innocuous wafers with a hideous crunch.
What harm of a foot on a wall map?
What harm has a step
for a hand saw, or bat?
Yet I dodge balletically.
Sparing the dictionary
I shatter the food.
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Meditation on a Tape Dispenser
Oh tape dispenser!
There you are, on the table.
It is Scotch tape, in the dispenser.
It is not clear tape, it is opaque.
Nebulous. Vague. Transmogrified,
Antediluvian. Shower-curtainish.
You hold the tape
there
on the table
waiting to be dispensed.
Pull out the tape
IF YOU DARE!
It sticks to things/things stick to it.
Isn’t life like that, a lot like that.
And love. And truth. And beauty.
When you think of it, we are all
Tape dispensers. Lying on the table of life.
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