Reshaping the Narrative: A Stuck Inside Poem. Day 24

On average, the size of dad dicks has decreased

significantly since the 1980s.  If you ever

peed in the bathroom at a baseball stadium 

in one of those long troughs as a child

and caught a glimpse of those warthogs

in your periphery, try to understand

those dicks were not exactly massive, but

compared to your seven year old hot wheel

those dongs appeared to be mac trucks.

The memory is false.  It is not real.   

It was your perspective that let  

you get upset at the girth of all those eels.  

You can let it go now.

Narrative has a way of comforting us.

A beginning, middle, and end

give us a little bit of a friend 

to lean on when nothing makes sense. 

Context doesn’t just inform

the meaning. Context is the meaning.

There’s no easy conclusion gluing

cause and effect together anymore.

No thread to pull through.  

No nugget of truth to support

the moral of the story you

need to believe to breathe.

My cat brings me lizards as an offering.

I imagine it’s her version of paying rent

and saying thank you when she yawns

with a carcass at her paws, but that’s me 

projecting again.  Giving meaning

where none is necessary

but feeling okay for the moment,

satiated by a narrative I’ve created.

But now, the details of parables 

are just seashells and werewolves.

No child finds a ride home

with the click of heels. No magic beans.

No kiss from a prince will wake you up. 

No nobility in dying alone.