No One Steps Across this Line

No One Steps Across this Line
Well, okay, you can, reader,
but you will have to eat some of this pizza.
I could write in a slice or two for you,
if you will let me.

 

I once studied the chair and desk of Whitman.

While I stood behind the sectioning off rope,
I hungered to sit at that desk and write Walt
a pepperoni--
thick dough crust with extra cheese extra olives,
but I could not.  I could not cross that line.
That's fine, since I didn't know what Walt would
drink:  Coke or Pepsi.

And don't it go that existence seems spent
on either this side or that side of a line.
We are line junkies, or linemen riding fences
in wide sectioned off counties.

No one steps across this line, and
no one better step across that line.
I'm so glad my mind's on the inside of my head,
or I would lose it.  Then where would I be?

So what is there to say about the soul
who steps outside of station, loses restraint,
then chases a great hunger?  And who
crosses over the great sea?

 

Tonight, 'gonna sit right down and write myself
a pizza with everything I want on it.
And you, dear reader, are welcome to join me.
Cross that line, feel free.

Or have I gone too far, crossed some sort of line,
suggesting that you, Whitman, and I share snacks?
I don't need to have olives. I'll write them out,
if you will let me.

 

What's that you say?
Walt doesn't want olives?
Am I the only one?

Reviews

[Emily B]

You may be the only one who wants olives. But never mind I'll pick off the stuff I don't like. Lines. I've often studied that line painted down the middle of the highway. I wonder what kind of fool decided that would keep the cars each on their side. I've studied other kinds of lines, too--too many to mention.

Wasn't it Dickinson who said, "We trust in plumed procession"?