Archive
09/16/08 - (3)
The Chip
From the time I was just a little-bitty kid, Growing, slowly, up, in mid-St. Louis County — Clayton's 1930s version of Tudor Stratford-on-Avon — Walking the half-minute to Glenridge School, I sensed a chip weighing heavily on my shoulder, Causing me to look askance at the world, Refuse to trust its blandishments, beguilements, Its flimflam, snake-oil sales pitches, Reject, out of hand, innately, instinctively, Every single one of its protection rackets Focused on making me believe it was on my side, Would guard me from playground bullies, Let me get along with my classmates, See that I made it through the day, got home safely. The price was much higher than I wanted to pay. To this way-too-late day, As a beneficiary of ignominious wars, Ignorant leaders, an insolvent, materialistic society, I still bear, on my shoulder, that childhood chip, Though, now, it's as large as the whole world, And it's crushing me to the size of a little-bitty kid.
09/16/08 - (3)
|
|||
|
|||
