Monday, July 10, 2017

Ode to McDonald's Water


Few things can capture
the flavor of childhood
like McDonalds water -
that ubiquitous clear liquid
with a tinge of Hi-C bliss
at so many fairs and tournaments,
parties and meals.

You pick it up
in that cute little
McDonald's cup
you never see
at the restaurant
and gulp it down
in a swallow or two
and go back for more
til you drown.

I wonder how they make it:
Does some first-week employee
get the task of holding the water cooler
below that red-headed step child
of soda machine buttons:
the awkward white square lever
labeled "water"
though it's always more than just that
as Hi-C particulates simultaneously descend
through the shared nozzle?

Or do they put in water from any old spigot
and intentionally splash in a dash of the C,
that aqueous equivalent of their special sauce?

This afternoon, as I quaff again this quaint elixir,
I contemplate how I am transported
so effectively through time and space
to reunite with my younger self
and hypothesize this trifecta to credit:

One: The clear necessity of life flowing through the soda fountain of youth,

Two: The orange Hi-C, gold-ish as if from the philosopher's stone,

Three: The paperboard cup, which - if it had been presented to him as an option - surely would've been chosen by Indiana Jones as the humblest cup and thus equivalent to the Holy Grail.

Surely these are why I am transported
both to the past of my younger self
and to the future
when I will bestow this same potion
on my children and their awaiting friends
at some community soccer event
where we'll all be winners
because though we came in as 60% H20,
we'll leave 60% McHiC20.

Tuesday, February 28, 2017

The Pillow Sings a Siren Song

It's
odd I see
the pillow as a
white-capped wave
containing
one mermaid
singing a siren song
each morning
tempting me to stay in bed.

It's the
oddest sea
to be sailing on -
these nightly visions
with the only sail
my thin bedsheet,
catching all my drool
as I dumbly gaze out
at Circe's dreamlike world.

It's an
audit - see
how this daily test
investigates the solvency
of my will,
inspecting my obeisance
to each day's taxing
list of to-dos.

In this
ode I see us
as the crew,
hastily and vainly
stuffing feathers in our ears
as if to block the pillow's siren song,
only to find its sound
is coming from within.

Tuesday, January 17, 2017

Synchronicity



It's finally happened.

You know how you listen to
Paul Simon's "Crazy Love, Vol II"
as you drive in the rain
then turn on the wipers
and for a few moments,
their rhythms align,
and you tap your foot,
tentatively pleased,
wondering when the other shoe will have to drop
as their beats invariably separate
in one of life's predictable disappointments?

Well, that separation never came.

It was like being in a scene
from Sesame Street
when inanimate objects sprout mouths
and sing along with you,
and the whole world is in impossible sync -
one concerted rhythm of light waves
illuminating through the splotchy clouds.

Or,
at least,
that's what it felt like
for a moment.