Online Romance Twitch
There's a little squirrel dancing on the telephone
wire. Were he a human boy, you'd just watch him though
you'd know he'd retire in a quick trip and plummet. But
the squirrel's got some balance. The squirrel's got his
weight goin' for him. Yeah, the squirrel's got some
balance up there on that wire. The twitchy squirrel
knows he's no need for repose, posed on his blue sky
background. He's not coming back down, and though the
line he runs sways, he spends all the day in mid-air.
Why should he care? As a grade-school boy, Trey wished
he had a superpower. He never could conclude which one,
and undecided in his final class hour, he would
daydream away. He'd keep the power a secret; he didn't
care if it was circumstantial 'cause he'd just keep it
a secret. No need for him to cause a fuss. It wouldn't
be planned, but some twitch of his hand would so
slightly alter the playground and turn it just a bit
'round, so nobody could tell. When the recess bell
would ring, they'd empty outside to run in the
afternoon sun. He'd stop to admire his work, the rest
of those jerks oblivious to the fact that although
inexact, Trey had lifted and looped like a ringlet,
reversing the swingset. In a little while this all will
be going away, whether tree or stone, velvet or brown
macrame, every placecloth and tea set. But I've
relieved my attachment, and now I won't get too
sentimental since I've relieved my attachment to all
these things I never really owned. This studio
apartment is Trey's. I've wasted the day at the window
watching the squirrels go back and forth like a shot.
They seem to do that a lot. I wish I had their energy
and their poise, their speed without noise, their lack
of unfulfilled dreams, their simple-minded schemes and,
though the old unsightly wind blows me slightly, some
kind of guide to upright me.