Thank God for the Telephone

I felt tired one day, of looking at empty yellow walls
So I bought many paintings, of many different tints
I waited for the train, while wondering why
I had bought the ones that I had, then
Walking homeward, I scuffed my feet
On how to hang them in the prettiest way
Shuffled into my room, sat down on a chair
Laid them out on my bed, all seventeen
I realized they were mostly blue and green
A reflection, perhaps, of a wish for freshness
An ode, perhaps, to passion, and a theme
And a little brown thrown in to ground me.

I arranged them haphazardly, leaving
Some space between them, to breathe
After all, they were mostly living things
Peach trees, irises, water lilies and such.

Liked a thought about order and chaos
Then took the frameless flowers off
And the rain and the trees, arranged them
In an isosceles angle, corner to corner
Some friends came over later that day
Said it looked tacky, I helped with the word
Then wondered why I needed the symmetry
More than I was disturbed by the inelegance.
After all, chaos I knew better than anything
Perhaps there lay in each painting
Fuel to the fission of the seeds of imagination
Perhaps the angle was an attempt at balance.

A friend called, one of those rare few
Playmates for thinking whimsical thoughts
Allies in the quest for a transcendental dynamic
Yet again, while absently twirling a strand of hair
I found myself talking mostly about me
I'm so much easier to talk about
Than so many other selves, and
Despite the pattern, I'm always surprised
When other selves don't seem to mind.

Mused on how the telephone allows me
To slip into alternate realities
Unconstrained by the things
That are chained, won't float around me
Frees me from the need to look
Lets me imagine without having to see.

Many-hued paintings arranged in symmetry
I wondered that there were many winding
Forest roads. So many roads...
Ensconced between thick green woods
Snug in the belief that they, leading
To no place in particular, really
Are what makes the forest seem
Close to me, in how little space
I need when I'm surrounded
By the things that make me free.

Yet, even winding paths
Have corners, and linear parts.
Would the geometry of life not intrude
On minds whose thoughts pirouette and dance
Fracture and fuse, tassel out into more, each
A worthy contender for their kind contemplation
And yet, there is the isosceles angle.

And then I asked myself that familiar
Worn out question - Where do I fit
An incredulous brow woken up by the way
Of rhythm and the persistence of thought,
Smiled the echo of how I need no more than
To prevail, silently exult that I can
Talk into a telephone, wherever I am.