You’d rather I write something
Profound like, “We all know
What it takes to end wars,” or
“This will cure all cancers at
Any stage,” or “End addictions?
Right here in this little pill
You take only once.” Sorry
To disappoint you so early in
The essay. As of this very
Moment I’m struggling with
Where are these large, slow-
Moving black flies coming
From and why will they not
Buzz by my bright display
When I have the swatter
In my right hand. That, or
Other minuscule torments
Might be at the heart of our
Limits in solving huge
Difficulties. It might be our
Finest composers could have
Birthed some great symphony
Were it not for their tidy-whites
Chaffing an impertinent pinch
Recurrent to the point of their
Stripping bare and leaving
Disgusting sweat patterns
On polished piano benches.
Or painters who develop a
Charlie-horse of their right
Arm, who cannot flick gobs
Of paint at their floor-bound
Canvases a la Pollock and
Are forever deprived fame
Of study and gallery. They
Starve and agree to paint
Warm window Christmas
Card schlock for the only
Chiropractor who can
Relieve the pain in their
Twisted arms. Then there’s
The theoretical physicists
Who come at their chalkboards
With an Einsteinian fury,
Convinced they will resolve
The gap between relativity
And quantum mechanics
Only to find each time they
Try to equate the chalk breaks
In their grasp, their nails
Screech across the board like
A witch riding a rasp or hacksaw
Instead of a wellworn rounded
Broom handle. That’s the kind
Of thing that can ruin your
Whole day. What guidance then
Can I grant you today, who
Am unable to balance my
Checkbook, clear my desk, whose
Underwear, socks pile in
A basket crying, “Launder
Me! Launder me”? I know I
Am humbled by the masses
Shouting, “These are first
World, white people’s problems.
Get over it,” their banners read
As they march up and down
My sidewalk every morning.
c. J.S.Manista, 2016
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