Foolishness

Man creaks from the newsagent

Across the strait of the road,

Galleon-proud, knowing an attack’s

As likely as a smooth crossing

And can never quite decide
if the cars mean him harm;

Nor they, in edgy flow – both caught

In freedom of decision, asking

Who last clicked the clock?

Man feels the kerbstone sandbag,

Painfully slowly dries himself, eyes closed

Always seeing them there,
Defined by indecision.

Walking now with a faint skip

He smiles that he won’t have for a while

To wonder what means what to whom.

We all know that relief at letting go

And need it not to tell us we should care

Or know who goes where, and why;

Taking our eye off the ball

Gives us back our foolishness,
Removes at a stroke the heavy

Uncomfortable shroud of the wise.