Perspectives and Candy Bars (Look Different When You’re Grown)

Mister Fish, the children called him
Behind his back, a corruption of something
Once misheard, bent and frail he’d stand
At the end of his garden, half an acre round,
(They knocked down his shabby little cottage
And built a crescent of executive homes),
By the school fence, old, weather-beaten, flaky,
Shaded eyes and an old straw hat, candy in his hand
Candy bars, long and sweet, bring them
Running, race down to the end of the
Playing field, legs pumping, laughing
Who will win? There’s not enough for
Everyone, Mister Fish is offering candy
Don’t stand too close, you know
(There’s a price to pay for everything)
He likes to touch, a touch for candy
A fair trade then, who was more excited
Old man or child? Now, not so sweet,
Free candy for creeping touches on
Unblemished skin, racing to the end of
The playing field, downhill and uneven, all the way
(They put up a new fence, further back,
To keep the kids away from the parking lot)
Pruney fingers skirt tender knees,
Mister Fish is a dirty old man, lost
In translation to an eight year old
(The boogeyman that lived in the old toilet block
Caused screams louder than the lunchtime bell),
Chocolate–coated whispers behind the
Classroom, what he might have done,
Revealed with a lack of words to tell
(They told bible tales at morning assembly,
Of good works and saints, they never mentioned),
The story in the school yard, no one ever
Heard, only the children – don’t take candy
From strangers, don’t get into unknown cars,
(They tore down his house after he died,
If they knew, they never said)
Mister Fish lived by the school,
Tended his vegetables and waved hello
To the teachers as they hurried to class,
Candy, candy, tastes so much sweeter
When you know you shouldn’t, but then
In time, too much will rot away your smile.

I can only see from here.

I can choose to stand by your side
Interlocking fingers tight,
Rest my head upon your burdened shoulders,
Let my heart ache for your tears that spill,
Unaffected;

I can climb the highest hill,
Scramble across the rocks,
Born when the Earth was new
And marvel at the valley below;
I can duck down low beneath
The storm bent bough,
Let its splinters catch my hair
In the tangle of its dying leaves,
And scratch my face with jagged twigs,
Once fresh budding hope,
But I can only see from here;

I can walk a mile or so,
Wearing through your soles;
I can skip down Needle Alley,
Breathe in the highs and lows
Of the city blocks;
Break a crust, scatter its crumbs
And mix them with the poverty of choice,
But I can only see from here;

I may let my fingers brush across
The steel and stone, the bright burnished finishes
Of commerce and culture;
Read your words of wisdom and scripture,
Lay eyes upon the undeniable impulses of your being,
Tilt my head and say, I understand,
But I can only see from here;

I can chase the waves that lap the ever
Baptized pebbles, rolling on the shore,
Slide across the slickened seaweed, following,
As the bay curves away, the headland
An admonishing finger juts out to
Orphaned islands in a shallow sea;
The tide slops on once distant lands,
Taking and breaking our cast-offs along
A common current,
Satin mists slip from the rocks
Studded with the simple jewels of shell and
Gaudy purple sea stars,
But I can only see from here;

We flip a coin,
Entropy and apathy, inextricably wound
Inscribe one face,
The flipside glitters with polished empathy,
Golden with the fires of a nascent sun,
It spins and tumbles in constant motion,
Its fate compelled by the forces of
An indifferent universe,
Mindlessly seeking,
To balance the books of our existence;
It clatters and rolls, teeters on its edge,
We would look if we could,
But I can only see from here.