Prose poemish: I was the flag on a certain mailbox
Yes . . . there are rumors I was left in the hollow of a tree stump near the crossbridge on the blue China platter my mother used on Flag Day to signal the Russians, who were then our enemies, that we were shining up the samovar for tea, would they come? I was the flag on a certain mailbox and much has been written in support of my being up, though it was conjectured the owner of the 'house' simply forgot to put me down. Up meant there was a letter for the postman to collect, something elegant in an envelope tinted Atlantic Ocean-blue. The letter's subtle and glib chattiness really meant, The submarines are ready, Nurse; or Dr. Eckleberg will see you now, 'Sir;' or Their eyes are watching too much television. I was rumored to divide my time between A and B but after careful calculation decided time wasn't divisible. Euclid didn't consider time that I know of and was satisfied with a Timex. He did suggest there were two points to a line and the line could be bisected. New lines will spring up in its place, I assure you, like flags on a mailbox. They will be vertical lines. I would imagine every line is parallel to some line somewhere, just as every human has a twin. Wasn't that common knowledge when I was in sixth grade? The sexual masochism of the male black widow is inspiring as a kamikaze. You know my heart but that's simply because you have X-ray vision, not because we've ever met (we haven't) or you're extra intuitive (you're not). I'm just a writer who must write every day. Today is November 23 and I've hit my mark. Phineas judged a playwriting competition; stage directions for a cat to hit three separate marks. Alas, that was the year Sophocles won. I always thought those competitions were fixed.