One Shoe

Maybe I've watched too much Desperate Housewives.

But it seems to me as though boredom can drive seemingly rational people to commit acts they never thought possible. So, I've decided to come up with some sanity savers, if you will.

In my case, boredom results from immobilization.

On the celebration of my 21st birthday, I took a bit of a spill. Whether this was the fault of the six-inch heels, the icy crosswalk, or the shots is still under investigation. Regardless of who's to blame (definitely me) the result was the same, a very twisted ankle.

I thought.

After a week and a half of walking, running, and dancing on said ankle, I decided (with the STRONG encouragement of those who love and know more than me) that the ankle might need a professional consultation.

An x-ray later, I had my diagnosis... cracked ankle. With a nice fissure gapping the bone like an adorable, maniacal bolt of lightening.

And so, I am officially: an incredible boss with a pain tolerance I didn't know I possessed... and in a cast for the next four weeks. 

I demanded it be hot-pink.

As a result, I've decided to attempt to name off a new time occupier (besides television) for each blog I write. First one: poetry.

Now, I am no Walt Whitman, no Robert Frost, no T.S. Eliot, but there's something about writing a poem that gives me the feeling that I can say things I wouldn't be able to articulate in any other form of writing. There are situations that just can't be done justice by being spoken out loud, and even if you're being perfectly honest.

Here's an interesting one I wrote for my poetry class this past semester:

----------------------

Allow Me to Explain

I know it must seem arbitrary

to pull you aside here and now

of all the places and times

I could have chosen,

but where better to become lonely

then at such a lovely party,

and one with an open bar?

I’m sorry. But if you knew me better

you would agree, that of all the bad things

to be bad at,

I am the best at being terrible

at this.

No, I can’t deny it.

It was a perfect fit, that hand.

Not too tense or loose

like a fish on land

gasping for air.

It was a perfect fit, wasn’t it?

How it clicked like too many teeth

after an orthodontist has had his way

with them, don’t you think it’s a sad, lonely

world where they can charge such an awful

amount for that much headache and pain,

when you can get the same for free from me?

Apologies. My mind, it’s like that train,

you know, the one that always gets away

from the tracks, no matter how much

I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.

I won’t and I can’t.

Not with your steady eyes

like glassy ceilings of sky

holding me back.

And I can’t stay here, and

no, it’s not the food,

it’s not the atmosphere

it’s lovely in here

but there’s this sea I’ve been dying

to visit. I hear there are plenty of fish,

in it, or something like that.

And I’m not ready to be reeled

in, even with a perfect hand,

made into a cookie cutter

salmon colored

lady who’ll stand quietly and

be very good at baking.

It smells delightful over here

by the dessert table, sickly sweet

like birthdays, or weddings.

Don’t you think?

Or do guilty lungs just work better

than heartbroken ones?

Look at the time, I can’t stay.

Do you remember where I left

that coat that you helped me

take off? I guess I’ll get that

by myself, anyway.

Thank you again, for stopping by

to meet me here, at that place between

hello and goodbye, but mostly

goodbye.

Truly, it was delightful to know you.

And really, it’s sad that

if you knew me better

you would agree

that of all the bad things

to be bad at,

I am the best

at being terrible

at this.

-----------------------

Bit heavy, but it occupies the time

So la-dee-da, and here's wearing out all of my left shoes and to coming up with other time-wasters to keep me sane. I keep ya posted.

Love,

Chloe